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LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Gl  FT    OF 


lA/l 

Class 


\ \..^^y,.»rn 


TEAGEDY    OF    EKROKS. 


By  the  same  Author. 


RECORD   OF   AN   OBSCURE   MAN. 
I   vol.   i6mo.     75   cents. 

In    Press. 
TRAGEDY   OF   ERRORS.     PART  II. 


BOSTON.        TICKNOR   AND   FIELDS      PUBLISHERS. 


TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS 


"Aux  plus  d^sh^rit^s  le  plus  d'amour." 


. 

OF  THE  \ 

UNIVERSITY  ) 

OF 

M^ 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR    AND     FIELDS 

1862. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1861,  by 

TlCKNOR  AND  FIELDS, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


RIVERSIDE,   CAMBRIDGE: 
STEREOTYPED  AND  PRINTED  BY  H.  0.  HOUGHTON. 


TEAGEDY    OF    ERRORS. 


MORNING. 


1 


-     ' 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

STANLEY,  a  wealthy  Southern  planter. 

EMMA,  his  wife. 

HELEN,  his  daughter. 

ALICE,  cousin  and  adopted  sister  of  Helen's  husband. 

HERMANN,  a  German  refugee,  formerly  tutor  to  Helen. 

WOODFOKD,  formerly  overseer  of  a  plantation  in  Cuba. 


SLAVES. 
HECATE. 
PERDITA. 
TURPIN. 
DORCAS. 
THERESA. 

EZEKIEL,  a  preacher  from  a  neighboring  plantation. 
BOAZ,  a  preacher. 

EOXANA,  waiting-woman  to  Mrs.  Stanley. 
PHILIP,  body-servant  to  Mr.  Stanley. 
SORDEL,    \ 


PYRRHUS,  ) 

FLORA,  "j 

CHLOE,  \young  girls. 

BELLA,  ) 

JUBAL,  an  old  man,  formerly  slave  to  Mr.  Stanley's  mother. 

DAFFY,  Roxana's  grandson. 

PETER,  an  old  man. 

(  Of  these  slaves,  Hecate,  Perdita,  Turpin,  Chloe,  and  Daffy  show 
no  mark  of  African  descent  ;  Theresa  is  a  light  quadroon  ;  EzeMel, 
JBoaz,  Milo,  Pyrrhus,  Jubal,  and  Peter  are  black.  The  rest  are 


Other  slaves:  field-hands  and  house-servants. 

Scene.  —  Belrespiro,  —  a  plantation  in  one  of  the  Southern  States. 


-<,T:BT* 

O'-   THE      " 

UNIVERSITY 

£*UF: 


TKAGEDY     OF    ERRORS. 


MORNING. 

SCENE  I. 

A  large  Glade. —  On  the  left  and  in  tlie  background,  the  Forest. — 
Groups  of  the  Work-people  of  the  Plantation,  in  holiday  dress,  are 
gathered  here  and  there,  some  chatting,  some  dancing,  others  en 
gaged  in  athletic  games.  Parties  of  people  are  still  entering  from 
the  right.  —  In  the  foreground,  towards  the  left,  is  a  group  of  men, 
among  whom  are  MELAS,  BOAZ,  and  PYRRHUS.  MILO  lies  on  the 
grass  near  them. 


Two  days !  two  holidays ! 

MELAS. 

Two  happy  days ! 

PYRRHUS. 

To  dance  and  sing ! 

BOAZ. 

To  exhort  and  pray ! 

MILO. 

To  sleep  in  ! 


8  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

PYKRHUS. 

Not  pale  and  short,  like  those  we  have  at  Christmas, 
But  long  and  broad  and  sunny ! 

MELAS. 

Good  Miss  Helen ! 

Where'er  she  goes,  she  takes  a  blessing  with  her. 
God  render  it  again  to  her  and  hers ! 


What  is  the  time? 

BOAZ. 

Not  six  yet. 

PYRRHUS. 

Almost  six  ! 
We  lose  our  day. 

MILO. 

We  lose  our  night,  you  mean. 
We  might  have  stayed  another  hour  asleep. 
To-day  's  our  own  ! 

PYRRHUS. 

To-day  and  all  to-morrow! 

MILO. 

But  'tis  good  napping  here  upon  the  grass, 
In  the  mild  morning  sunshine,  —  even  better 
Than  under  cover. 

PYRRHUS. 

But  our  songs  and  laughter, 
Our  merry  dances,  Father  'Zekiel's  preaching, 
How  will  these  suit  with  sleep  ? 


MORNING.  9 

MILO. 

Oh,  bravely,  friend ! 

My  ears  stand  open,  though  my  eyes  be  shut. 
My  soul  shall  dance  and  sing  and  shout  with  you, 
While  the  contented  body  takes  its  rest. 

MELAS. 

Be  happy  your  own  way.     To-day  is  free. 

PYERHUS. 

To-day  and  all  to-morrow. 

MILO. 

But  the  next  day ! 

PYRRHUS. 

Two  long  days  off.     We'll  meet  it  when  it  comes, 
And  live  through  it  as  through  so  many  others. 


You  '11  live  through  it !     Ungrateful  that  you  are  ! 
With  such  a  master,  a  true  gentleman, 
That  lives  and  lets  live !     This  is  all  the  thanks 
You  give  for  two  whole  days  of  idleness : 
Only  to  grumble  that  they  have  an  end! 
Shame !     Shame ! 

PYRRHUS. 

Yes,  shame,  to  spend  our  time  in  prosing! 
What  shall  we  do?     How  shall  our  mirth  begin? 


10  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

[Women  enter;  among  them,  FLORA,  CHLOE,  BELLA,  and  Rox- 
ANA,  who  is  followed  by  DAFFY.  They  place  themselves  in 
the  centre  of  the  foreground.  The  men  suspend  their  conver 
sation  to  observe  them.  PHILIP  enters,  approaches  the  fore 
ground,  and  looks  on  with  an  air  of  superiority. 

BELLA,  to  Flora. 

How  gay  you  are !  Where  did  these  roses  come  from  ? 
1  thought  mine  pretty ;  but  they  're  only  real  ones. 


Where  all  I  have  comes  from :  from  kind  Miss  Helen. 
The  first  ball-dress  she  had  was  trimmed  with  them. 
I  dressed  her ;  and  how  beautiful  she  looked ! 
Poor  dress  !  it  was  so  fresh  that  night !  so  lovely ! 
And  last  year,  when  we  took  it  from  the  drawer, 
It  was  all  changed  and  flimsy  with  the  damp. 

BOAZ,  who  has  been  gradually  drawing  near  them. 
Yes,  thus  it  is,  my  friends,  with  earthly  pleasures  : 
A  moment  fresh  and  bright,  then  dull  and  faded. 

CHLOE. 

You,  Boaz  ?     Ah,  how  true  !     These  idle  girls, 
With  their  gay  talk  of  balls  and  dress  and  ribbons, 
Turn  off  the  thoughts  from  death  and  sacred  things. 
How  is  it,  Boaz?     When  I  hear  the  preacher 
Discourse  and  pray,  my  soul  belongs  to  heaven ; 
I  feel  myself  already  fit  to  fly. 
But  afterwards,  when  I  have  left  the  meeting, 
Though  I  would  hold  me  in  a  state  of  grace, 


\ 

MORNING.  11 

The  banjo's  twang  or  a  rose-colored  ribbon 
Calls  down  my  heart  and  I  am  all  this  earth's. 

BOAZ. 

That  is  the  nature  of  the  female  heart, 
That  lightly  sways  to  this  or  that  attraction. 

CHLOE. 
"What  shall  we  do,  then  ?     If  it  is  our  nature 


Be  not  cast  down ;  for  it  will  be  considered. 
Wisdom  and  strength  have  not  been  made  your  portion. 
But  therefore  should  each  feeble  female  mind 
Choose  for  itself  a  wise  and  strong  director. 
Those  prone  to  temporal  follies  should  choose  one 
That  has  the  gift  of  preaching  and  expounding ; 
So  that  by  words  both  in  and  out  of  season 
Their  souls  may  still  be  lifted  and  sustained. 

CHLOE. 

How  well  he  talks  !  what  precious  words  of  wisdom ! 
How  did  you  come  by  so  much  learning,  Boaz  ? 

ROXANA,  looking  at  Flora's  dress. 

It 's  well ;  it 's  well.     You  're  right  to  love  Miss  Helen. 
But  my  Miss  Emma  had  a  bigger  fortune. 

FLORA. 

You  love  the  mistress  as  I  love  Miss  Helen. 


12  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

ROXANA. 

Love  her?  and  who  should  love  her,  if  I  do  not? 
I  took  her,  when,  a  little  frightened  child, 
She  stood  alone  there  in  her  father's  house. 
The  nurse  that  brought  her  must  not  stay  with  her, 
For  fear  the  thought  of  home  should  stay  there  too, 
The  home  that  she  was  sick  for,  the  old  home. 
And  was  n't  it  to  me  she  used  to  tell 
How  much  her  sister  was  more  like  a  mother 
Than  her  own  father  was  a  father  to  her? 
When  did  Miss  Helen  do  as  much  by  you? 
Then,  when  her  sister  and  her  sister's  all 
Went  down  at  sea,  who  was  it  fretted  with  her, 
And  sat  up  nights,  and  told  her  all  the  wrong 
Sure  to  be  done  to  poor  unmothered  girls  ? 
When  did  you  ever  that  much  for  Miss  Helen? 
And  now,  who  is  it  that  she  listens  to 

FLORA,  smiling. 

Hecate  ? 

ROXANA,  disdainfully. 

You  don't  know  what  you're  saying.     Hecate! 
How  much  some  people  see ! 


Who's  that,  —  who's  that, 
Gliding  along  the  margin  of  the  wood  ?  — 

[  THERESA  enters  by  a  path  through  the  wood  on  the  left. 
It  is  —  it  must  be  —  yes,  it  is  Theresa! 


MORNING.  13 

CHLOE. 

On  holidays  she  has  n't  shown  herself 
E'er  since  her  son  became  a  runaway. 

FLORA. 

She  gathers  flowers.     What  should  she  do  with  flowers  ? 

DAFFY. 

A  runaway?     What  did  he  run  away  for? 

ROXANA. 

Oh,  nonsense  !  nothing !  — 
[To  Flora  and  Chloe. 

Talk  of  something  else. 

'T  is  ill  to  say  such  things  before  the  children. 

Bad  acts  are  catching.     Who  knows  what  might   hap 
pen  ? 

FLORA. 

Do  you  think  he  'd  never  hear  it  but  from  her  ? 

PHILIP,  coming  forward. 

What  are  you  talking  of  ?  Theresa's  son  ? 
I  know  the  most  about  it.     I  was  there. 

DAFFY. 

How  was  it?     Tell! 

[MELAS,  PYRRHUS,  and  MILO  join  the  group  in  the  centre  of 
the  foreground. 

PHILIP. 

Well,  you  all  know  Theresa 


14  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Was,  in  her  day,  the  handsomest  and  proudest 

Of  all  that  walked  the  earth :  proud  of  her  beauty, 

Proud  of  her  manners,  prouder  of  her  voice, 

Proudest  of  all  of  her  one  child,  her  boy. 

Well,  I  '11  not  say  but  that  she  had  some  reason: 

Now  that  he's  dead  and  gone,  I  think  she  had. — 

Our  master's  youngest  sister,  when  she  married, 

Took  that  boy  off  with  her  to  her  plantation  : 

'T  was  great  promotion  for  him,  that  it  was  ! 

He  was  to  be  her  coachman.     He  was  dressed 

Like  any  gentleman,  and  hardly  had 

A  thing  to  do  but  go  out  on  the  carriage. 

He  was  n't  old  enough,  they  thought,  to  drive  : 

He  was  but  sixteen,  though  he  looked  like  twenty. 

Well,  whether  't  was  the  Devil  tempted  him, 

Or  whether  't  was  the  pride  his  mother  gave  him, — 

At  any  rate,  one  morning  he  was  missing. 

At  first  no  one  believed  't  was  so;  but  soon 

The  truth  came  out.     "  To  horse  and  after  him ! " 

So  went  the  word.     It  was  not  long  in  doing.  — 

Our  master  was  there  then,  and  I  was  with  him.  — 

They  came  up  with  him  in  an  open  space 

Between  two  woods,  just  as  it  might  be  here. 

He  would  not  yield  till  they  had  fired  three  times; 

Nor  then.     But  when  he  fell  all  faint  with  bleeding, 

They  tied  him  on  a  horse  to  take  him  home. 

He  did  n't  get  there,  —  died  upon  the  way. 

We  scooped  a  hole  out  for  him  in  the  swamp 

And  laid  him  in. 

DAFFY. 

In  his  fine  clothes  ? 


MORNIXG.  15 

PHILIP. 

No,  no ! 

The  boy  left  all  his  handsome  things  behind  him. 
He  wore  the  dress  of  a  field-hand.     He  bought  it, 
No  doubt,  with  money  got  from  visitors. 
He  was  a  handy  lad,  and  his  good  manners 
And  cleverness  brought  him  in  many  presents. 
That  helped  to  turn  his  head. 

MELAS. 

Yes,  that  and  reading. 


Reading?     Ah,  that's  as  may  be.     There  are  heads, 
As  you  must  know,  are  strong  enough  to  bear  it. 
But  he  was  young  and  light. 

PHILIP. 

,       Well,  there  he  lies, 
Theresa's  pride  and  darling ! 

FLORA. 

Hush  !  she  comes  ! 

No,  —  she  has  stopped.     She  does  not  seem  to  know 
Where  she  is  going. 

CHLOE. 

She  can't  know,  indeed ! 
'Tis  the  last  place  where  I  should  think  to  see  her. 


Ah,  but  to-day !     She  always  loved  Miss  Helen. 


16  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

CHLOE. 

Well,  then,  she  'd  better  show  her  love  to  her, 
And  keep  within  to-day.     That  face  of  hers 
Would  change  a  wedding  to  a  funeral. 

KOXANA. 

Ah,  poor  Theresa!     'Twas  another  story 

In  times  that  I  remember !     Once  we  thought 

It  was  no  holiday,  if  she  were  wanting. 

PHILIP. 

Nor  only  we.     For  even  when  the  mistress 
Had  company,  Theresa  sang  to  them. 

ROXANA. 

She  sang,  they  said,  in  all  the  languages. 
She  had  been  by  and  heard  the  music-lessons 
The  foreign  master  gave  to  Miss  Lucretia ; 
And  such  a  gift  she  had,  that  girl,  from  Nature, 
That  all  she  heard  she  could  at  once  repeat, 
Only  more  perfect  and  more  beautiful. 

PHILIP. 

The  mistress  said  that  she  had  never  heard 
At  any  theatre  or  opera-house 
A  voice  like  hers. 

FLOKA. 

I  can  remember  it. 

When  quite  a  child,  I  used  to  hear  her  sing. 
It  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  heavens  opened 


MORNING.  17 

And  her  song  bore  me  upward  on  its  wings. 
What  would  I  give  to  hear  that  voice  once  more ! 

DAFFY. 

But  I  have  never  heard  it.     How  long  is  it 
Since  she  gave  up  her  singing  ? 

ROXANA. 

Since  the  day 
She  heard  that  news.     'T  is  now  about  twelve  years. 

MELAS. 

Twelve  years  ?  So  long  ?  How  did  the  mistress  take  it  ? 


Hard  at  the  first.     To  hear  Theresa  sing 
Had  been  her  greatest  pleasure.     Hours  and  hours 
She  used  to  listen,  and,  when  one  song  ended, 
Would  quickly  say,  "  Again  !  —  again  !  —  another  !  " 

CHLOE. 

Oh,  my  poor  mistress !  what  a  loss  it  was ! 


Her  time  hung  heavy.     I  have  seen  her  shed 
Tears,  speaking  of  that  girl's  ingratitude. 
They  tried  all  means  to  move  her  stubbornness. 
Nothing  would  do,  and  she  was  let  alone. 
She  does  her  work  as  she  was  used  to  do,  — 
Knits  and  embroiders  ;  sing  she  can't,  or  will  not. 
2 


18  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

FLORA. 

See  her,  poor  thing !  see  how  she  ties  up  nosegays, 

And  lets  them  drop,  and  then  begins  again! 

Now  she  stands  wondering  at  herself.  —  Theresa  !  — 

She  comes  towards  us !     She  is  really  coming ! 

If  she  would  sing  !     Perhaps,  if  we  should  ask  her  • 

This  day,  this  happy   day 


What !  do  for  you 
What  even  the  mistress  could  not  win  from  her? 


Who  knows  ?  We  can  but  try.     Perhaps  she  '11  hear  us. 
We  have  no  power  to  order ;  we  but  beg. 

[THERESA  comes  near.  Her  face  is  wan,  but  has  the  remains 
of  great  beauty;  her  look  is  vague  and  abstracted,  but  at 
moments  has  in  it  something  tender  and  beseeching. 

KOXANA. 

Good-morning !     We  are  glad 


FLORA. 

To  see  you  here. 
Theresa  dear,  we  were  just  speaking  of  you. 

THERESA. 

You  might  have  chosen  better. 

FLORA. 

We  were  saying 


MORNING.  19 

What  pleasure  it  would  give  us  on  this  day 
To  hear  the  voice  we  used  to  love  so  much. 


THERESA. 

That  voice!     Ah,  when  you  hear  it,  dread  its  tones! 
When  the  dumb  speak,  it  is  a  time  of  danger. 

FLOKA. 

Those  heavenly  tones  can  only  promise  good. 

THERESA. 

You  know  not  what  you  ask.     You  will  not  hear  them. 

FLORA. 

Oh,  dear  Theresa,  why,  then,  are  you  here  ? 

THERESA. 

Ah,  why,  indeed  ?     A  something  in  the  air 
Told  me  it  was  a  fitting  time  for  me. 
Something  has  happened,  —  some  calamity. 
Is  there  a  corpse  for  me  to  help  lay  out? 


Wake  up,  Theresa  !     No,  —  you  dream.     Wake  up  ! 

This  is  the  happiest  day  in  all  the  year. 

Your  dreams  are  black,  but  they  are  morning  dreams, 

And  go  by  contraries.     Miss  Helen  comes ! 

She  comes  to  us  for  the  first  time  to-day 

Since  she  was  married  !     Think,  then,  what  a  pleasure  ! 

Here  we  shall  see  her,  and  shall  see  the  child, 

Our  little  master  that  will  be  one  day  ! 


20  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Come,  then,  one  song,  Theresa !  just  one  song ! 
Don't  look  so  frozen  and  so  straight  before  you 
Wake  up !  look  at  us !  Dear  Theresa,  once ! 

ALL,  pressing  round  Theresa. 
Yes,  dear  Theresa,  only  once  !  one  song ! 


Thanks !    thanks !     But   leave    me   where   I   am,   good 
friends ! 

{She  looks  round  upon  them,  then  seems  to  rouse  herself  mill  effort 
and  sings.  Her  voice  is  at  first  low  and  tremulous,  but  conies 
out  at  last  clear  and  full,  with  a  touch  of  wildness. 

Seek  not  in  me  what  I  have  been  ! 

The  days  are  vanished  long 
When  my  soul  drew  the  sunshine  in, 

And  breathed  it  back  in  song. 

Then  was  no  need  to  ask  my  lay, 

I  poured  it  like  the  bird  ; 
My  heart  within  kept  holiday, 

And  sang,  though  no  man  heard. 

The  form  that  led  your  dance  and  mirth 

Is  gathered  to  the  past: 
That  step  no  longer  treads  the  earth, 

Those  lips  have  smiled  their  last. 

The  sleepers  underneath  the  ground 
In  their  still  bed  are  blest : 


MORNING.  21 

There  are,  who,  with  the  living  found, 
Know  death  without  its  rest. 

I  do  not  ask  God's  curse  on  those 

Who  wrought  this  utter  woe  ; 
I  grudge  them  not  the  heart's  repose 

They  could  not  let  me  know. 

But  ask  me  not  to  share  again 

Their  sorrow  or  their  weal ! 
These  bring  me  neither  joy  nor  pain  : 

I  have  forgot  to  feel. 

Two  only  thoughts,  in  its  despair, 

My  mind  unfaded  keeps  : 
That  burial  without  a  prayer ! 

That  grave  where  no  one  weeps ! 

[  Theresa  goes.     The  others  remain  a  few  moments  silent, 
watching  her  until  she  disaj>pears  in  the  forest. 

CHLOE,  to  Flora. 

What  have  you  done,  unlucky  girl !     That  song ! 
And  that  must  be  the  first  we  hear  to-day ! 
'T  will  bring  no  blessing  on  the  baby's  cradle. 
I  must  go  off.     The  day  is  spoiled  for  me. 
It  seems  as  if  a  cloud  had  hid  the  sun. 

FLOKA. 

No,  —  stay  !     See  there  !  it  shines  as  bright  as  ever. 
I,  too,  felt  chilled  and  stunned ;  but  now  't  is  past. 


22  TRAGEDY  OF  ERROKS. 

CHLOE. 

Well,  take  your  mirth  out.     I  will  go  and  pray. 


Oh,  what  •  a  pity !  What  did  bring  her  here  ? 

And  what  could  make  me  urge  her  so  to  sing  ?  — 

[To  Chloe,  who  is  going  slowly  away. 
Come  back !     You  can't  be  so  unkind  !     Come  back  ! 

CHLOE,  returning. 
Only  to  please  you,  then.     My  heart 's  not  here. 


Oh,  here  comes  Sordel !  — 
[To  Sordel,  who  enters. 

Have  you  something  new  ? 
You  look  as  if  you  had  a  song  to  sing  us. 
'T  will  not  be  gay,  I  know,  —  it  never  is,  — 
But  only  gently  sad :  that  does  no  harm. 
Your  mournful  lays  I  can  support ;  —  but  hers  ! 


Whose,  then? 

FLORA. 

Oh,  do  not  ask !     Begin  and  sing. 
We  had  expected  you.     We  all  are  met 
On  purpose  here.     We  like  your  songs  the  best. 


A  song !  a  song  ! 


UNIVERSIT 

OF 

MORNING.  23 


FLORA. 


Soft,  sweet,  and  not  too  sad! 

SORDEL  sings,  accompanying  himself  on  a  kind  of  rude  guitar. 
She  went,  my  life's  one  treasure  ; 

She  will  not  come  again  ! 
She  went  to  ease  and  pleasure  : 

I  stayed  to  toil  and  pain  ! 

I  might  have  known  me  better, 
Dark,  sullen,  rude,  —  and  she  ! 

No,  they  could  not  have  let  her 
Belong  to  one  like  me  ! 

And  yet  not  to  me  only 

Love  this  delusion  brought. 
Oh,  how  my  life  were  lonely, 

If  not  for  that  one  thought  ! 

In  vain  the  wealth  and  splendor  ! 

Those  soft  eyes  watch  and  pine. 
I  feel  their  long  gaze  render 

The  love,  the  grief  in  mine. 

In  vain  the  proud  caressing 

She  dares  not  quite  gainsay 
Her  hand  returns  the  pressing 

Of  a  hand  that  's  far  away  ! 

[They  applaud.     Sordel  withdraws,  and,  seating  himself  under  a 
tree,  tunes  his  instrument. 


24  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

VOICES,  in  another  part  of  the  glade,  shout. 
He  comes !  he  comes !  Ezekiel  the  preacher ! 

[  EZEKIEL  enters  by  a  path  through  the  forest,  on  the  left, 


Ezekiel  here?     How  will  that  please  the  master? 
Preacher  Ezekiel  is  n't  too  well  looked  on. 
Who  bade  him  here  ? 

PYKRHUS. 

He  was  n't  bidden ;  he  came. 

PHILIP. 

No,  he  was  bidden  here.     How  else  could  he 
Have  known  that  we  had  holiday  to-day  ? 
Had  you  the  master's  leave  ? 

PYRRHUS. 

He  did  n't  forbid  it. 
He  knows  on  holidays  we  must  have  preaching. 

PHILIP. 

Yes,  but  Ezekiel ! 

MELAS. 

Oh,  he  '11  overlook  it. 

PHILIP. 

I  don't  know  that ! 


MORXIXG.  25 

PYRRHUS. 

Why,  he  's  too  good  a  master 
To  be  hard  on  us  only  for  a  sermon. 

KOXANA 

He 's  not  of  those  that  go  against  religion. 

PHILIP. 

He  does  n't  object  to  it  in  moderation. 

BOAZ. 

Ah,  but  Ezekiel  is  not  orthodox. 
I  will  myself  expound  a  little  later: 
I  have  not  been  moved  yet. 

PYRRHUS,  laughing. 

We  're  not  impatient. 

MELAS,  to  Pyrrhus. 

No,  as  you  say,  he  is  too  good  a  master 
To  grudge  us  the  salvation  of  our  souls. 


He  knows,  when  we  are  working  out  salvation, 
We  only  do  our  other  work  the  better. 


And  he  who  has  a  better  world  in  prospect 
Is  the  more  easily  content  in  this. 


26  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

BOAZ. 

Yes,  he 's  a  good  man  and  a  wise,  our  master. 

PYKRHUS. 

He  chooses  the  best  way  to  keep  us  faithful. 
He  has  no  need  to  make  himself  uneasy 
As  to  our  hearing  this  or  that.     He  knows 
What  we  dread  most  is  being  sent  away. 


Our  dreading  it  may  n't  hinder  it  from  coming 
To  some  of  us,  some  day ! 

PYKRHUS. 

Well,  leave  that  now. 
What  will  come  will  come.     We  '11  not  borrow  trouble. 

[  EZEKIEL  advances  slowly,  frequently  stopped  by  persons  who  go 
out  from  the  different  groups  to  speak  to  him.  He  is  a  tall, 
well-proportioned  man,  very  black,  with  finely  formed  head  and 
regular  features.  He  is  distinctly  seen,  for  he  towers  above  the 
others.  A  little  behind  him  comes  TURPIN,  a  man  of  middle 
height,  slender,  of  pale  complexion,  with  black  beard  and  curling 
black  hair.  His  features  are  delicately  cut,  but  wear  an  ex 
pression  of  defiance,  displaced  now  by  one  of  reckless  jollity, 
now  of  cynical  disdain,  as  he  exchanges  jests  and  sarcasms 
with  the  gay  groups  among  whom  he  passes. 

MELAS. 
Here  is  the  preacher!     Listen,  he  is  speaking! 

ROXANA. 

Ah,  we  lost  that!     But  he  is  coming  nearer. 


MORNING.  27 

MILO. 

He  comes  too  soon.     We  have  not  had  our  fun  out. 

PYRRHUS. 

Oh,  he  will  let  us  dance.     He  is  not  Michael. 

MILO. 

No,  but  he  is  another  of  the  same. 

CHLOE. 

He  will  not  let  us  murder  our  own  souls  : 

That  were  poor  kindness,  Father  Michael  tells  us. 

MELAS. 

But  Michael  speaks  in  anger,  —  lie  in  love. 


If  he  forbid  us  to  enjoy  ourselves, 

I  shan't  know  what  to  think.     He  looks  so  mild, 

Perhaps  he  will  not. 

[As  they  speak,  they  go  a  little  way  to  meet  Ezekiel.  lie  returns 
their  salutations  with  dignity  and  kindness.  The  rest  of  the 
people  have  left  their  sports  and  gather  round  to  listen  to  him. 
He  speaks  without  effort,  but  in  a  voice  so  clear  and  full  that 
he  is  heard  by  all. 


1  forbid  you  nothing. 
The  grant  or  the  denial  of  your  hearts 
Must  be  your  guide.     If  these  speak  not  for  God, 
Vain  to  perform,  and  vainer  to  abstain ! 


28  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

MELAS. 

Do  you  condemn  us  ? 


God  forbid,  my  brother! 
My  mission  is  to  win  you  back  to  Eden, 
Not  to  repel  you  with  a  flaming  sword. 


We  want  to  come  to  heaven,  if  we  can ; 
But  here  we  have  one  day  of  pleasure  sure. 
If  we  lose  this,  and  yet  get  nothing  for  it ! 

MILO. 

How  can  we  know,  that,  even  if  we  get  there, 
It  won't  be  there  the  same  almost  as  here  ? 
We  are  poor  ignorant  and  simple  creatures, 
And,  as  we  die,  so  we  wake  up  again. 
Will  not  the  great,  the  learned,  and  the  wise 
Have  all  their  places  higher  there  than  we  ? 
What  pleasure  shall  we  have  to  sit  in  heaven, 
And  be  forever  there,  as  here,  the  lowest  ? 

[DORCAS  enters:  a  small,  meagre,  brown  woman,  with  wrinkled  skin, 
and  large  black  eyes,  whose  common  expression  is  that  of  craft 
and  restless  suspicion,  but  which  at  times  kindle  with  a  wild 
gleam.  She  stands  listening  somewhat  apart  from  the  rest, 
who  do  not  notice  her. 


Preacher  Ezekiel,  I  have  had  that  thought 

More  times  than  once.     How,  if  we  must  wake  up 


MORNING.  29 

The  same  we  fell  asleep,  shall  we  be  able 

To  hold  our  heads  up,  when  we  get  to  heaven, 

Among  so  many  great  and  learned  people  ? 

I  think  much  on  the  other  world;  I  long 

To  have  my  portion  there  among  the  good. 

But  will  it,  can  it,  be  a  heaven  to  me. 

Where  there's  a  higher  and  lower,  as  there  is  here? 


There  is  a  higher  and  lower ;  yet  not  as  here. 
Have  you  not  heard  the  gospel,  that  you  know  not 
The  last  shall  there  be  first,  the  first  be  last  ? 
Those  who  have  suffered  most  shall  know  most  joy, 
Who  have  borne  most  reproach  be  most  exalted. 
You  never  heard  that  tale  in  Scripture  told, 
How  't  was  with  Dives  in  the  other  world,  — 
The  proud  rich  man,  who  in  his  earthly  life 
Had  never  known  what  hunger  was  nor  thirst? 

MILO. 

I  don't  know  that  I  recollect  that  story. 

BOAZ. 

Not  know  that  story  ?     Oh,  what  ignorance ! 

EZEKIEL. 

You  never  heard  of  Dives,  the  rich  man, — 
How  splendidly  he  lived,  how  high  he  feasted  ? 

VOICES. 

We  've  heard  of  him.     But  tell !  tell  all  about  him  ! 


30  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

EZEKIEL. 

His  spacious  halls,  even  in  summer  heats, 

Were  cool  and  fresh,  with  their  white  marble  floors, 

Their  dripping  fountains  of  sweet-perfumed  water, 

And  spreading  fans,  that,  hung  on  golden  cords, 

And  gently  moved  by  hands  of  unseen  slaves, 

Gave  evening  breezes  in  the  stillest  noon. 

At  night  a  soft  and  silk-hung  bed  received  him. 

Sweet  music  cheated  to  the  light  repose 

That  was  a  pleasure  only,  not  a  want. 

How  rich  his  table  was  I  need  not  tell  you, — 

What  meats,  what  sugared  dishes,  and  what  wines, — 

Wines  cooled  with  ice  brilliant  and  hard  as  diamonds ! 

When  he  had  guests,  —  and  that  was  every  day, 

And  once  a  week  at  least  a  splendid  banquet, — 

They  never  ate  off  anything  but  gold ; 

And  each  guest  had  a  servant  to  himself, 

That  stood  behind  his  chair  and  helped  but  him. 

Dives,  be  sure,  had  troops  on  troops  of  servants. 

PYRRHUS. 

Oh,  but  what  luck  to  have  had  such  a  master  ! 


Well,  the  time  came  that  he  must  leave  all  this. 
He  went  to  sleep  one  night  in  his  cool  room, 
Slaves  fanned  him,  music  lulled  him,  all  as  usual. 
He  had  not  said  his  prayers:  of  that  be  certain. 
What  should  he  pray  for  ?     He  had  all  already. 
He  slept,  then,  as  I  said;  but  suddenly 


MORNING.  31 

He  finds  himself  out  of  his  costly  bed, 

Out  of  his  splendid  room,  and  through  the  air 

Whirling  away.     "  Oh,  what  a  dream  !  "  he  thinks  ; 

"  If  I  could  only  wake  ! "     But  on  he  whirls 

Swift  as  a  musket-ball,  until,  at  last, 

Giddy  and  breathless,  he  brings  up  in  hell. 

He  did  n't  know  't  was  hell  at  first :  or  rather, 

He  did  n't  know  't  by  name ;  he  felt  what  't  was. 

A  glare,  as  of  ten  thousand  thousand  torches, 

Struck  on  his  eyes  ;  in  vain  he  held  them  shut  ; 

The  glare  was  there  within  as  't  was  without. 

He  saw  no  sun  nor  blaze  the  light  could  come  from  ; 

It  seemed  the  air  itself  was  all  aglow. 

Then  came  the  little  creeping,  unseen  flames, 

Wound  themselves  round  him,  twining  up  and  up, 

Till  the  whole  surface  of  his  naked  soul 

Was  wreathed  with  fire,  that  like  the  fire  of  fever 

Burned,  parched,  and  anguished,  but  without  consuming. 

VOICES  interrupt,  chanting. 

Oh,  dreadful  land!     'T  is  easier  here  to  bear 
The  hottest  torments  of  the  noontide  glare  ! 

OTHER  VOICES. 

Oh,  let  us  suffer  here,  so  that  we  come  not  there! 


When  he  could  see  about  him  in  that  blaze, 
He  looked  from  side  to  side  to  seek  for  help ; 
And  presently,  one  after  one,  appeared 


32  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Friends  he  had  seen,  with  splendid  funerals, 

Borne  to  lie  down  to  rest  in  marble  tombs. 

They  looked  at  him,  but  did  not  say  him  welcome. 

Then  he  remembered  all  that  had  been  told  him 

Of  death  and  of  the  reckoning  after  death. 

He  knew  that  he  was  dead  and  was  in  hell. 

Lifting  his  eyes  up  then  in  his  despair, 

He  saw  far  off,  lying  in  cool,  blue  space, 

The  happy  habitations  of  the  chosen. 

To  the  soul's  senses  distance  is  no  hindrance. 

It  was  so  far  that  in  a  thousand  years 

A  bird  could  not  have  flown  from  him  to  them ; 

And  yet  he  seemed  to  hear  the  waving  trees, 

The  gentle  murmur  of  the  silver  waters, 

The  music  toning  from  the  heavenly  harps. 

He  saw  the  blessed  walking  in  white  raiment  ; 

He  saw  how  kind  they  smiled  upon  each  other, 

Like  loving  brothers  in  their  father's  house. 

VOICES  break  in. 
When  shall  we  come  to  thee,  0  land  of  bliss? 

OTHER  VOICES. 

To  win  that  lovely  world,  well  may  we  pine  in  this ! 


But  all  the  faces  there  were  strange  to  him : 
In  vain  he  sought  some  old  friend  or  relation, 
That  might  be  brought  to  speak  a  word  for  him ; 
Until,  at  last,  searching  with  desperate  eyes, 


MORNING.  33 

He  found  a  face  to  which  memory  answered,  "  Yes  !  "  — 
But  where  beheld,  at  first  it  could  not  tell  him. 
Slowly  the  where,  the  when,  came  back  to  him. 
That  face,  so  beautiful,  so  still,  so  noble, 
Was  it  the  face  of  the  despised  beggar, 
Whose  bleeding  sores  and  face  awry  with  pain 
Disgusted  him,  as  he  passed  out  his  gate 
In  his  carriage,  mornings  ?     It  was  Lazarus  ! 
This  was  a  poor  old  man  who  'd  been  a  servant ; 
But  whether  't  was  with  Dives  or  another, 
I  did  not  rightly  hear,  and  cannot  tell  you. 

BOAZ,  aside. 

He  cannot  read !     He 's  only  heard !     I  thought  so  ! 
A  pretty  fellow  he  to  be  a  preacher ! 


But  he  had  been  a  servant,  and  a  good  one. 
If  he  could  but  have  kept  off  growing  old, 
He  would  have  done  so,  for  his  master's  sake. 
But  the  strong  limbs  grew  feeble,  the  quick  hands 
Awkward  and  slow  ;  and  so  a  younger  man 
Must  do  his  work;  there  was  no  place  for  him. 
His  master  then  gave  him  his  liberty. 

VOICES. 

Gave  him  his  liberty  ?     Ah,  that  was  hard ! 

EZEKIEL. 

A  year  or  two  he  just  got  work  enough 


34  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

To  keep  along;  but  soon  no  one  would  hire  him 

Even  for  his  keep,  he  was  so  sick  and  feeble ; 

He  got  more  blows  than  coppers  or  than  food. 

When  strength  was  none  and  work  was  none,  he  sat  him 

Down  on  a  stone  not  far  from  Dives'  gate, 

And  waited  that  the  scornful  passers-by 

Should  throw  him  now  and  then  a  bit  of  money. 

There  all  day  long  he  sat;  sometimes  he  got  one, 

And  some  days  none ;  but  never  a  kind  word 

Nor  a  kind  look  was  his,  by  any  chance : 

Only  the  dogs  sometimes  made  friends  with  him. 

He  was  translated  on  the  very  night 

That  Dives  left  his  soft  and  curtained  bed 

For  the  last  time.     The  old  man  had  that  day 

Received  no  alms.     He  stretched  his  feeble  body, 

When  the  night  fell,  upon  the  cold,  hard  stone, 

But  his  soul  raised  itself  to  God  in  prayer. 

Grateful  he  prayed,  with  heart  o'erflowed  with  love. 

He  thanked  his  Maker  for  the  inward  light 

That  overpowered  the  outward  gloom, —  for  strength 

Divinely  sent,  which  made  the  body's  weakness 

Appear  no  evil  more.     As  thus  he  prayed, 

And  more  and  more  his  soul  strove  up  to  God, 

Sudden  it  seemed  to  disengage  itself: 

It  rose,  it  soared,  it  found  itself  in  heaven  !  — 

This  was  the  face  that  Dives  knew  again : 

"  Lazarus  himself ! "  he  said ;  and  then  he  wished 

That  the  last  time  he  passed  the  beggar  by 

He  'd  happened  to  have  given  him  a  cent. 

Too  late  for  that!     But  still,  when  he  considered 


MORNING.  35 

What  honor  it  would  be  for  Lazarus 

To  do  a  favor  to  a  man  like  him, 

He  thought  he  'd  risk  the  making  a  request. 

So,  for  the  first  time,  he  sent  up  a  prayer : 

He  begged  that  Lazarus  might  come  to  him 

And  bring  him  down  only  a  drop  of  water 

To  cool  his  tongue.     Oh,  but  his  thirst  was  fearful  ! 

Soon  as  the  wish  was  thought,  't  was  heard  in  heaven, 

And  back  the  answer  came  as  swift  again  : 

"  Thou  hadst  thy  good  things  in  the  earthly  life, 

And  Lazarus  his  evil.     It  is  finished. 

A  gulf  is  now  forever  set  between  you. 

Thou  canst  not  come  to  him,  nor  he  to  thee ! " 

FLORA. 

Ah,  me !  I  almost  fear  we  are  too  happy ! 

DORCAS,  chuckling  to  herself. 

He  that  when  here  would  not  have  looked  at  water !  — 
That 's  what  Ezekiel's  preaching  is !     It  suits  me  ! 

MILO. 

We  shall  be  first  there  !     'T  don't  seem  possible  ! 

ROXANA. 

Ah,  that 's  a  comfortable  Scripture  doctrine ! 

TURPIN. 

What  fun  it  must  have  been  to  that  old  fellow ! 
If  I  could  but  look  down  from  Paradise, 


36  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

And  hear  my  master  bawling  up  from  Tophet, 
"  A  glass  of  water,  boy  !  "     I  'd  give  up  dancing 
And  drinking,  and  I  'd  just  stick  close  to  praying 
Through  my  whole  life,  if  it  could  come  to  that. 
To  see  him  shake  his  fists  and  rage  and  tear, 
While  I  sit  solemn  there  and  look  at  him, 
Safe  out  of  reach !     Ah,  that  would  pay  him  off ! 

FLORA. 

What  shocking  words !  You  are  not  of  our  people, 
But  you  have  been  let  come  to  share  our  pleasure ; 
And  this  is  all  your  gratitude !  For  shame  ! 


I  was  n't  let  come  ;  I  've  got  to  pay  for  it. 
I  was  sent  on  errand  to  another  place, 
But  made  off  here  instead.     The  punishment, 
I  dare  say,  would  have  caught  me  all  the  same 
For  something  else  that  was  n't  better  worth  it. 

DORCAS,  still  standing  apart. 

And  those  who  take  their  vengeance  in  this  world, 

Will  they  enjoy  it  in  the  next  again  ? 

If  not,  I  've  overreached  myself.     No,  no ! 

A  bird  in  the  hand  !     Dorcas,  when  you  saw  her 

Set  up  for  sale  on  the  same  block  with  you, 

You  had  your  heaven,  if  you  ne'er  have  another ! 

FLORA. 

I  can't  but  think  't  was  hard  on  Lazarus, 
Though  that  old  master  had  been  no  good  man, 


MORNING.  37 

Not  to  be  able  just  to  comfort  him 

With  one  poor  drop  of  water,  when  he  asked  it. 

'T  is  likely,  though,  they  did  n't  let  Lazarus  hear  him. 

If  it  were  possible  —  of  course  it  is  not  — 

But  just  suppose  that  I  could  be  in  heaven, 

And  poor  Miss  Helen  pining  down  —  below  there  ; 

If  she  signed  to  me  for  a  glass  of  water, 

I  'd  give  it  her,  though  I  lost  heaven  for  it. 

MELAS. 

The  Scripture  saith  that  hardly  shall  a  rich  man 
Enter  the  kingdom.     What  rich  men  will  be  there  ? 


There  will  be  those  that  have  been  poor  in  spirit, 
Remaining  God's  true  children,  not  disowning 
Their  brotherhood  with  any  He  hath  made. 
There  will  be  those  that  in  this  life  have  borne 
An  aching  heart  beneath  the  costly  dress. 
For  there  are  found,  even  in  stately  houses, 
Those  that  are  brought  to  God  through  suffering : 
I  've  seen  such  near,  and  looked  upon  their  lives. 
We  need  not  grudge  to  offer  them  the  hand  ; 
They  are  of  us,  and  well  may  share  our  heaven. 

DORCAS,  in  a  smothered  voice,  with  clenched  hands. 
Not  one  of  them  !  not  one  of  them !  not  one  ! 


Through  suffering!     And  our  Miss  Helen,  then? 
'T  would  be  no  heaven  to  me  where  she  was  not 


38  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

MELAS. 

We  know  by  riches  men  come  not  to  heaven. 
But  wisdom  ?  learning  ?  that  is  something  else. 

BOAZ,  consequentially. 

Wisdom  and  learning,  —  yes,  that  's  different. 

MELAS. 

We  are  so  ignorant,  alas,  and  simple ! 


Simple  indeed  !  Why,  wisdom,  earthly  wisdom, 

Is  the  last  wealth  a  man  can  take  to  heaven  : 

More  cumbersome  it  is  than  bags  of  gold. 

Has  not  Christ  said,  "  Become  as  little  children, 

Or  else  you  cannot  enter  "  ?     Said  not  Paul, 

"  He  who  is  wise  with  earthly  wisdom  must 

Become  a  fool,  if  he  would  be  a  Christian  ?  " 

I  tell  you,  children,  if  you  miss  of  heaven, 

'T  is  not  your  ignorance  will  keep  you  out. 

And  would  you  know  what  station  God  prefers, 

And  what  respect  He  has  for  human  learning  ? 

Inquire  where  Christ  was  born,  and  what  his  breeding. 

Who  were  his  learned  tutors?     In  what  college 

Got  he  the  wisdom  that  redeemed  the  world  ? 

He  might  have  had  his  choice ;  he  might  have  come 

As  the  most  rich  and  learned  of  the  earth, 

And  so  have  had  the  great  men  and  the  wise  men 

All  following  him,  proud  to  be  his  disciples. 

That  might  have  tempted  one  of  us,  not  him. 

He  chose  to  come  and  be  a  carpenter,  — 


MORNING.  39 

A  carpenter,  —  why,  just  as  I 'm  a  blacksmith! 

A  carpenter,  just  like  your  Pyrrhus  there  ! 

And  when  the  time  came  to  go  out  and  preach, 

Whom  did  he  choose  to  aid  him  in  his  work  ? 

Who  were  they  Avhom  they  call  the  Twelve  Apostles  ? 

There  was  n't  a  gentleman  among  them  all ! 

Poor  fishermen  and  such  !     And  for  their  learning,  — 

[Looking  round  him  and  stretching  out  his  arms. 
The  books  they  read  are  open  still  to  us. 

[Looking  upward  devoutly. 

The  source  of  wisdom,  whence  their  spirits  drank, 
Is  not  yet  dry.     It  flows  for  him  that  seeks  it. 

BOAZ. 

As  if  Saint  Peter  had  not  been  a  bishop  !  — 

[Aside  to  Philip. 

I  told  you  that  he  was  not  orthodox. 


Not  orthodox  ?     It 's  quite  ill-bred  and  low. 
I'm  off  from  this.     I  like  genteeler  preaching. 

[  Goes. 

CHLOE. 

Really,  I  'd  rather  they  'd  been  gentlemen  ! 

EZEKIEL,  after  a  pause. 

Let  us  not  ask  about  the  fate  of  others. 
To  their  own  master  let  them  stand  or  fall. 
We  have  our  own  salvation  to  work  out.  — 

[Pauses  again,  then  proceeds. 

Yes,  let  the  rich  and  mighty  have  their  kingdom, 


40  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

The  kingdom  of  this  earth.     We  grudge  them  not 

Their  transient  bliss.     But  we,  the  heirs  of  light, 

We  upon  whom  the  saving  mark  is  set, 

The  mark  that  men  interpret    Want  and  Shame, 

But  that  to  angel  eyes  reads    Wealth  and  Glory, 

Shall  we  renounce  our  promised  heritage  ? 

If  those  to  whom  this  earth  is  given  in  portion 

Make  all  they  can  of  it,  and  lose  no  ray 

Of  their  short  sunshine,  who  can  wonder  at  them  ? 

This  earth  is  fair,  is  wondrous  fair ;  its  pleasures 

Sweet  to  the  sense  of  man.     And  he  who  stands 

Beside  their  flood  upon  the  placid  shore, 

And  feels  their  rippling  billows  woo  his  feet 

With  soft,  decoying  touch,  how  shall  he  choose 

But  lose  himself  into  the  treacherous  tide, 

And  rise  and  sink  and  revel  with  its  waves  ? 

But  we,  whose  way  tends  through  the  weary  waste, 

Beyond  whose  sands  lies  our  appointed  home, 

Shall  we  stay  dallying  with  the  shining  pebbles 

That  haply  here  and  there  may  strew  our  path, 

And  lose  from  sight  the  sunlit  mountain-tops, 

From  thought  the  happy,  cool,  embosomed  valleys, 

The  shadowing  trees,  the  springs  of  living  water? 

VOICES  interrupt. 

Oh,  blessed  land  beyond  those  mountains  hidden  ! 

OTHER   VOICES. 

Oh,  dreary  desert  stretching  out  between  ! 


MORNING.  41 

OTHER  VOICES. 

Oh,  earthly  joys !  so  near,  and  yet  forbidden  ! 

OTHER  VOICES. 

Oh,  heavenly  pleasures !  ours,  and  yet  unseen  ! 

CHORUS   OF   VOICES. 

Hard  is  our  portion  in  these  earthly  bowers, 
When  what  is  ours  is  not,  and  what  is  is  not  ours! 

EZEKIEL. 

Oh,  faint  not!  falter  not!  From  that  blest  land 

Celestial  eyes  are  watching  your  approach. 

Follow  with  resolute  step  your  dreary  path. 

With  steadfast  courage  meet  the  demon  hosts 

That  bar  your  passage  to  your  promised  home. 

Unmarked  on  earth  these  mean  defeats  and  triumphs  ; 

But  there,  with  each  reverse  a  shadow  falls 

Over  the  brightness  of  angelic  faces, 

Each  victory  wakes  in  heaven  one  joy  the  more  ! 

PHILIP  reenters. 

You  must  all  come,  —  the  order  has  been  given,  — 
And  range  yourselves  each  side  the  avenue. 
You  must  come  now,  and  not  delay  a  minute, 
That  you  may  be  there  when  the  carriage  passes. 
Each  one  must  have  a  red  rose  in  the  hand, 
Or    some    bright    flower,    to    make    the    scene    more 

gay- 


A5>^ 

0^ THE  \ 

UNIVERSITY    1 


42  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

FLORA. 

Oh,  beautiful !  that  was  the  mistress'  order. 

I  '11  twine  some  wreaths :  that  will  be  prettier  still. 


You  must  be  careful  not  to  fright  the  horses  ; 
And  when  the  carriage  has  gone  by,  you  must 
Move  forward  in  a  regular  procession, 
Until  you  are  assembled  on  the  lawn, 
Where  all  the  grass  has  just  been  cut  on  purpose. 
And  there  you  all  are  to  receive  your  portions, 
Which  you  may  either  carry  to  your  cabins, 
Or  else  bring  here  and  have  a  general  feast. 
To  each  man  will  be  given  a  double  portion ; 
Women  will  have  a  portion  and  a  half; 
The  men  to  have  a  share  of  spirits  beside. 

[  The  people  gather  round  EzeTciel. 

MILO. 

Preacher,  you  know  we  must  obey  the  master. 

\_EzeTciel  assents.    Milo  goes,  and  others  with  him. 

PYRRHUS,  lingering. 

We  will  come  back  again  and  hear  the  rest. 

EZEKIEL. 

Go,  go,  and  do  your  duty.     Follow  them. 

FLORA. 

You  know  we  must  go  out  to  meet  Miss  Helen  ! 


MORNING.  43 

EZEKIEL. 

She  is  your  mistress,  and  is  kind  to  you  ? 

FLORA. 

Kind  as  an  angel. 

EZEKIEL. 

Well,  well,  go  and  meet  her. 


But  you  will  come  with  us  and  have  your  share? 
Our  master  always  gives  the  same  to  strangers 
As  to  his  people,  on  our  holidays. 

CHLOE. 

We  shall  have  meat  and  bread  and  lard  and  sugar. 
And  then  Miss  Helen  will  add  something,  surely, — 
She  always  does,  —  sweet  cake,  or  something  good. 


And  every  man  to  have  a  glass  of  spirits ! 

Did  you  not  hear  ?     We  '11  have  a  glorious  feast ! 


I  will  stay  here.     I  have  brought  bread  with  me. 

I  will  refresh  myself,  and  speak  again 

When  you  come  back.     If  you  are  long  away, 

I  will  employ  the  time  in  praying  for  you, 

That  the  unusual  license  of  this  day 

May  not  become  to  you  a  cause  of  stumbling. 


44  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

MELAS. 

Ezeldel,  shall  I  risk  my  soul's  salvation, 
If  I  accept  my  share  of  what  is  going  ? 


'T  were  better,  if  you  could  abstain,  my  son. 
But  if  you  cannot,  take  in  moderation. 

MELAS. 

To  all  temptation  you  are  deaf  and  blind. 

EZEKIEL. 

I  was  not  once ;  but,  by  God's  grace,  I  Ve  conquered. 

[  They  go  slowly,  Flora  stooping  from  time  to  time  to  gather  flowers. 
Dorcas  remains  standing  in  her  former  position,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  Ezekiel,  who  continues  speaking  to  himself. 

And  yet  not  wholly.     I  have  still  my  combats, — 
No  longer  of  the  flesh,  but  of  the  spirit. 
Oh,  if  warm  prayers  and  resolute  self-denial 
Were  all  God  asked  for  in  return  for  heaven, 
Then  were  it  easy ;  but  the  lowly  mind, 
The  soft  forgiving  spirit,  how  win  these  ? 
Love  to  my  God,  love  to  the  good  I  feel; 
But  the  unjust,  the  cruel,  and  the  base, 
Before  I  recollect  that  I  must  love  them, 
The  indignant  flash  has  passed  across  my  brain. 
No  outward  act,  no  outward  word  betrays  it; 
But  God  has  seen  it. 

Did  I  wrong,  just  now, 


MORNING.  45 

To  grant  a  half-permission  to  the  people 

To  cheat  themselves  awhile  with  these  false  pleasures  ? 

I  fear  I  erred  in  this.     Alas  !  my  heart 

Is  weaker  to  these  children  than  myself. 

But  if  I  erred,  so  is  not  theirs  the  error, 

Not  theirs  the  atonement.     Let  a  double  fast, 

Let  work  continued  through  the  hours  of  rest, 

Atone  my  fault.     So  will  my  master  gain. 

I  cannot  love  him,  but  can  toil  for  him 

As  if  I  did.     But,  O  deceitful  heart, 

Thou  dost  betray  thyself!     The  heaviest  penance 

I  give  myself  is  to  do  him  a  pleasure  ?  — 

[Dorcas  approaches  slowly. 

It  is  that  wandering-witted  woman,  Dorcas ! 
What  can  she  want  with  me  ? 

DORCAS,  aside. 

He  does  not  know  me, 

Or  thinks  that  I  've  forgotten.     And  I  had. 
I  did  not  know  him,  when  I  heard  him  preach. 
But  later,  when  the  people  had  all  left  him, 
I  saw  once  more  that  look  upon  his  face 

It  wore  when It  was  only  for  an  instant, 

But  there  it  was  !     What  if  I  told  him  all  ? 
Vengeance  at  least  we  might  enjoy  together.  — 

[  To  Ezekiel. 

Ezekiel,  you  're  a  powerful  man  in  speech. 
'T  is  the  first  time  I  've  heard  you  give  a  sermon. 
These  foolish  people  all  bepraised  you  so, 
I  thought  't  was  something  else.     If  I  had  known 


46  TKAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

What  people  meant  by  comfort  in  religion, 
I  would  have  sought  it  sooner. 

EZEKIEL. 

Not  too  late 
At  the  eleventh  hour  to  come  to  God. 

DORCAS. 

That's  not  the  tone  I  want  to  hear.     Just  now 

I  saw  a  keen  light  flashing  from  your  eye 

That  had  more  warmth  in  it  than  these  prim  words. 

And  when  you  told  us  about  that  old  beggar, 

How   his    heart    crowed    when    he   looked   down   from 

heaven, 
And  saw  his  master  getting  his  deserts! 

EZEKIEL. 

I  told  you  that?     You  know  not  what  you  speak. 


Either  you  said  so,  or  you  let  us  feel  so. 
My  memory  is  not  great  for  holding  words ; 
I  only  take  the  spirit.     I  don't  know 
The  sense  of  half  I  hear,  but  what  I  feel 
I  can't  mistake  in. 

EZEKIEL,  aside. 
What  a  sharp  reproach 

This  woman  brings  me  !     God !  and  is  it  so  ? 
Can,  then,  the  hidden,  the  unconscious  feelings 


MORNING.  47 

Impart  themselves  ?     Can  our  words  take  from  these 
A  meaning  that  we  had  not  thought  to  give  them  ? 
Oh,  wretched  man,  the  curse  still  cleaves  to  thee !  — 

[To  Dorcas. 

Is  it  not  rather  thy  unwholesome  heart 
That  changed  the  words  of  health  to  words  of  poison  ? 


It  might  have  been  so,  —  it  might  well  have  been  so ; 
But  it  was  not.     Thou  bear'st  in  thee  unslaked 
A  thirst  that  I  have  known,  that  I  have  quenched, — 
Yet  not  entirely.     Have  I  read  thee  well  ? 
Know'st  thou  this  thirst  ? 

EZEKIEL,  aside. 

Does  madness  give  such  power 

To  read  in  the  heart  what  the  owner  does  not  see  there  ? 
God !  what  a  hell  wakes  in  me  at  her  words  ! 
Is  it  a  fiend  sent  from  the  abyss  to  tempt  me? 
A  moment  since  I  almost  triumphed.     Never 
Stood  I  so  near  the  victory,  so  near  heaven. 
And  now !  — 
[To  Dorcas. 

What  brings  you  here  to  me,  strange  woman? 


I  came  for  what  I  see  you  will  not  give  me  : 
I  came  for  comfort,  hope.     I  've  reached  my  ends. 
But  life  is  short,  and  mine  draws  near  its  close. 
I  've  but  one  thing  to  lose,  in  losing  it,  — 


48  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

The  joy  of  looking  on  a  sated  vengeance. 

For  thirty  years  I  've  feasted  on  this  joy,  — 

And  now  to  die !     To  give  up  breathing,  moving, 

Oh,  that  were  nothing  !     But  to  give  up  hating ! 

Hating  with  a  secure,  triumphant  hate  ! 

That  thought  weighs  on  me,  when  I  think  of  death. 

Your  words  to-day  awakened  a  new  hope. 

Tell  me,  —  you  are  a  preacher  and  must  know,  — 

Can  we  beyond  the  grave  enjoy  our  vengeance? 

What  must  we  do  to  earn  the  right  to  this? 

EZEKIEL,  with  effort, 

Woman,  this  dreadful  hope  I  cannot  give  you. 
With  thoughts  of  vengeance  we  come  not  to  heaven. 
Oh,  strive  to  gain  another  heart ! 

DORCAS. 

Be  silent  ! 

Tell  what  I  ask,  or  do  not  speak  at  all ! 
I  do  not  want  another  heart.     My  own 
Is  good  enough  for  all  I  ask  of  it. 
What  use  to  me  a  heart  that  knew  to  love? 
I  've  nothing  left  to  love  !     This  stuff  to  me  ! 

EZEKIEL,  aside. 
Nothing  to  love !     I  will  have  patience  with  her.  — 

[Aloud. 

How  !  hast  thou  nothing  left  to  love  ?     No  children  ? 
No  brothers  ?  sisters  ?     But  perhaps  thou  art 
Not  of  this  country  ? 


MORNING.  49 

DORCAS. 

No,  —  I  am  from  Cuba. 

EZEKIEL,  aside. 
From  Cuba  !     She  has  breathed  that  air  with  her  !  — 

[To  Dorcas. 
You  know  the  Spanish  tongue  ? 

DORCAS. 

I  knew  it  once, 

But  have  forgotten  it.     For  thirty  years 
And  more  I  have  not  heard  the  Spanish  spoken. 

EZEKIEL. 

For  forty  years  I  have  not  heard  it  spoken,  — 

[Aside. 
Or  only  in  my  dreams. 

DORCAS. 

You  have  forgot  it  ? 

EZEKIEL,  aside. 
Forgot  the  tongue  in  which  she  spoke,  we  spoke  ?  — 

[  To  Dorcas. 

This  is  but  idle  talk.     Unhappy  woman, 
How  gladly  would  I  do  thee  good  !  but  not 
As  thou  hadst  hoped. 

DORCAS. 

No  other  way !     To  take 
4 


50  TKAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Away  from  me  the  only  good  I  have 
Is  not  to  do  me  good.     If  in  your  heaven 
There  is  no  place  for  hate,  there  's  none  for  me  ! 
I'll  take  my  chance  and  go  without  religion. 
I  thought  you  might  have  taught  one  I  could  learn. 
As  pay,  I  would  have  shared  my  wealth  with  you. 
But  since  't  is  so,  keep  your  wares;  I  keep  mine. 

[Dorcas  goes. 


Poor  crazed  thing,  how  gladly  would  I  save  her ! 

Alas,  I  am  more  like  to  lose  myself! 

The  work  of  forty  years  undone  at  once  !  — 

What  form  flits  by  ?  what  tones  are  in  my  ears  ? 

Oh,  what  a  spell  there  was  in  that  word,   Cuba  f 

She  moves  before  me,  that  wild,  graceful  creature, 

"With  her  fantastic  gayety,  sweet  sadness, 

Her  bursts  of  passion  ravishing  and  fearful ! 

For  she,  like  me,  was  nearer  Africa 

Than  are  the  most.     Our  mothers  saw  the  light 

First  underneath  those  glowing  skies.     Our  blood 

Is  tempered  only  by  a  single  mixture. 

But  while  I  bore  upon  my  bronzed  face 

The  signs  that  marked  me  of  my  mother  country, 

She  wore  the  impress  only  on  her  soul : 

Her  features,  skin,  were  of  her  father's  race.  — 

Oh,  vanish,  beautiful  and  fearful  vision  ! 

Back  to  the  grave  where  thou  hast  slept  till  now  ! 

Moulder  where  moulder  youth  and  joy  and  hope  ! 

Dead  to  my  love,  live  not  to  my  despair !  — 


MORNING.  51 

0  God  !  tliou  know'st  how  I  have  wished  to  serve  thee  ! 
How  striven  to  come  to  thee  by  prayer  and  penance  ! 
Cast  me  not  off!  deny  me  not  thy  grace! 

Help  me  to  battle  these  invading  demons !  — 
The  help  comes  not.     The  tempest  is  not  laid. 

1  feel  that  heaven  is  shut  against  my  prayer. 
That  prayer  itself,  perhaps,  is  a  transgression, 
Coming  from  this  perturbed,  dishallowed  heart. 
O  heart,  that  didst  believe  thyself  His  temple, 
How  art  thou  desolate,  thou  God-abandoned  ! 


52  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


MORNING. 

SCENE  II. 

A  large  r$om,  witli  windows  opening  on  a  long  portico,  whose  columns  are 
wreathed  with  vines.  STANLEY  and  HERMANN  are  seated  near  one 
of  the  windows,  engaged  in  conversation.  EMMA  reclines  on  a  sofa. 
Near  her  stands  a  table,  on  which  is  a  large  vase  of  white  flowers. 
The  room  is  profusely  decorated  with flowers.  A  little  slave-girl  stands 
near  Emma,  employed  in  fanning  her.  The  child  lets  the  fan  sink, 
and  turns  towards  the  window. 


How  close  it  is !     A  storm  is  coming  on  ! 
Where  is  your  fan  ?     The  thing  is  half  asleep ; 
Or  else  her  wits  are  out  upon  the  green. 
There,  lay  it  down,  and  go  and  join  the  rest.  — 

[  The  child  goes. 

'T  is  strange  how  fond  these  people  are  of  dancing ! 
They  really  have  more  pleasures  far  than  we. 

HERMANN,  to  Emma. 

They  have  less  thought.     Thought  is  the  foe  of  pleas 
ure. 

STANLEY,  aside. 

If  Emma's  pleasure  had  no  other  foe ! 

EMMA,  looking  at  her  watch. 

Not  nine  o'clock  yet!     Where  is  Bella?    Gone 
Off  with  the  rest,  no  doubt.     Give  them  but  dancing, 


MORNING.  53 

They  forget  everything.     The  only  person 

That  can  amuse  me  now  is  little  Bella. 

'T  is  true  she  never  will  know  how  to  sing 

Like Was  not  that  the  sound  of  distant  thunder  ? 

[She  starts  up. 

STANLEY,  going  to  the  window. 

Not  yet,  —  not  yet.     The  clouds  are  gathering. 
Yes,  we  shall  have  a  thunder-storm  to-day. 
If  it  will  only  wait  a  few  hours  more, 
It  may  come  on  and  welcome. 

EMMA. 

Do  not  say  it! 

STANLEY. 

When  we  have  once  our  Helen  safely  housed, 
The  storm  may  burst.     In  fact,  we  need  the  rain. 

EMMA. 

Then  let  us  have  the  rain  without  the  storm. 

HERMANN. 

It  is  not  often  that  our  wish  is  granted 

In  the  same  measure  or  in  the  same  manner 

As  our  mind  imaged  its  fulfilment. 

\ 

STANLEY. 

I 

Have  but  one  wish  in  life  and  one  in  death : 


54  TRAGEDY   OF  ERRORS. 

That  I  might  have  my  Helen's  blessed  presence 
While  my  term  holds,  and  that  her  loving  accents 
May  be  the  latest  tones  that  reach  my  ear ! 

EMMA,  aside. 

I  never  saw  my  husband  look  so  pious ! 
'T  was  almost  like  a  prayer ! 

HERMANN,  aside. 

In  this  connection 
This  solemn  wish !     The  Gods  avert  the  omen  !  — 

[  To  Stanley. 

Upon  a  prayer  so  pure  and  so  restricted 
Heaven  could  not  frown.  — 

[Musingly. 

And  yet  perhaps  't  is  better 
To  let  the  eternal  circles  hold  their  way, 
Nor  make  them  swerve  by  vow  or  prayer  of  ours. 

STANLEY,  in  his  ordinary  tone. 

For  me,  I  think  I  shall  not  claim  much  merit 
For  my  forbearance. 

HERMANN. 

Ah,  the  human  will, 

Borne  upward  on  the  wings  of  faith  and  longing, 
Has  mighty  power.     But  the  audacious  effort 
Is  often  punished  by  its  own  success. 
The  compelled  Destinies  avenge  constraint. — 


MORNING.  55 

[  Checking  himself. 

These  are  not  topics  for  this  happy  day. 
I  am  to  blame.     I  know  not  what  came  on  me. 

STANLEY. 

Your  serious  mood  gained  me.     How  is  it,  Doctor  ? 
You  are  more  grave  to-day  and  more  sententious 
Than  even  your  wont.     And  yet  you,  too,  love  Helen. 
You,  too,  look  forward  to  her  coming  back 

HERMANN,  warmly. 

As  to  the  coming  back  of  spring.  'T  is  true. 
Whate'er  my  heart  has  left  of  soft  and  loving 
Belongs  to  her.  I  yield  but  to  her  father. 

[Stanley  and  Hermann  continue  to  converse  in  dumb  show. 

EMMA,  aside. 

But  to  her  father  ?     And  her  mother,  then  ? 
The  mother  has  a  right  to  love  the  best ! 
'T  is  strange,  —  they  make  no  more  account  of  me 
Than  if  I  were  not !     Am  I,  then,  a  cipher  ?  — 

[  With  a  more  animated  expression. 
I  love  her !  She  is  beautiful,  my  child ! 
And  yet  —  and  yet  —  how  is  it  ?     In  my  heart 
There  is  a  sore  place  somewhere.     Oh,  what  is  it? 
Why  cannot  I  feel  all  the  joy  that  they  do  ? 
Where  is  the  glow,  the  longing  of  a  mother 
That  listens  for  the  footstep  of  her  child  ? 
My  husband's  eye  has  an  unusual  brightness ; 
His  voice  is  lower,  and  his  tones  more  feeling 


56  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Than  commonly.     And  even  the  old  Doctor 

Has  something  tender  on  his  rugged  features. 

How  cold  my  heart  is  to  my  only  child ! 

"What  damps  it  so  ?     'T  is  this  depressing  climate. 

They  call  it  here  the  South.     What  can  the  North  be  ? 

My  feelings  once  gushed  out  so  warm,  so  lively ! 

My  sister-mother,  and  my  real  sister, 

My  darling  Agatha  !  I  had  no  need 

To  chide  myself  for  want  of  love  to  you ! 

When  little  Agatha  and  I  were  playmates, 

How  soft  my  heart  was  !  with  what  tenderness 

Did  it  give  back  the  love  that  all  things  offered! 

Now,  dull  and  weak,  it  has  no  quickened  throb 

Even  at  the  coming  of  my  own,  own  daughter ! 

Could  I  but  love !  could  I  but  love  as  once ! 

HERMANN,  to  Stanley. 

'T  was  in  this  room  that  I  first  made  acquaintance 
With  my  young  pupil.     With  dejected  heart 
I  came  to  you  that  morning,  —  broken  in  hope 
As  well  as  fortune,  brought  by  force  to  lay 
All  my  aspirings  down  and  toil  for  bread. 
I  thought  it  shame,  —  I,  not  without  a  name 
Among  the  learned  of  the  elder  world, — 
I,  who  once  thought  my  brain  should  influence 
The  interests  of  the  future,  —  thus  to  stoop 
To  teach  a  little  girl  her  A,  B,  C. 

STANLEY. 

It  was  a  waste  of  power.     I  felt  it  was. 


MORNING.  57 

HERMANN. 

I  have  long  ceased  to  think  it  such.     The  man 

Who  in  this  world  of  error  and  delusion 

Has  found  one  unwarped  mind,  one  candid  heart, 

Has  not  been  luckless.     His  life  is  not  wasted, 

If  he  have  had  this  mind,  this  heart  to  train. 

And  if  his  conscience  tell  him  he  has  left  it 

In  its  first  candor,  has  but  aided  it 

In  its  expansion,  not  controlled  or  moulded. 

Content  to  furnish  fitting  nourishment 

And  watch  unfold  the  perfect  human  flower,  — 

He  may  forgive  himself  for  many  errors, 

Forgive  the  world  for  many  disappointments. 

STANLEY. 

Doctor,  the  obligations  we  are  under 

To  you,  for  all  that  you  have  done  for  Helen, 

Are  not  to  be  expressed.     You  know  we  feel  them. 

HERMANN. 

The  obligations !     Do  not  use  that  word,  — 
Else  I,  too,  must  begin  acknowledgments. 
I  must  recount  the  many  acts  of  kindness  ; 
The  recognition  —  not  the  least  of  these  — 
Of  the  poor  exile's  claims  upon  respect ; 
The  confidence ;  the  full  appreciation 
Of  my  endeavors,  of  my  system ;  the  — 
Perhaps  you  will  permit  me  to  say  —  friendship 
Which  for  so  many  years  has  honored  me. 


58  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

STANLEY,  courteously,  but  with  a  slight  shade  of  condescension,  not,  how 
ever,  perceived  by  the  Doctor,  who  is  occupied  with  his  own  thoughts. 

The  friendship  of  a  man  like  you  is  honor. 

[  With  genuine  warmth. 

And  one  who  is  what  you  are  to  my  Helen 
Claims  not  regard  alone,  but  gratitude. 

HERMANN. 

In  my  new  office  I  did  have  some  merit,  — 

I  '11  not  deny  it.     A  laborious  pedant,  — 

Professor  in  a  University, 

A  German  University,  —  encased 

In  triple  armor  of  scholastic  learning, 

I  laid  the  cumbrous  load  at  Nature's  feet, 

Confessed  myself  her  subject,  humbled  me 

To  be  companion  of  a  little  child,  — 

Learning  of  her  more,  daily,  than  I  taught. 

There  was  some  strength  required  for  that.     I  laud  me 

More  for  this  modesty,  this  power  to  value 

My  life's  toil  at  its  worth,  than  for  the  works 

That  gave  me  fame  once,  or  those  other  writings 

That  set  a  state  on  fire  —  phosphoric  fire, 

That  glowed  and  startled,  and  then  faded  out  — 

And  won  for  me  the  questionable  glories 

Of  obscure  martyrdom.     The  hardest  chains 

To  break  are  those  of  prejudice  and  custom ; 

And  when  our  pride  has  interest  to  maintain  them, 

We  seldom  even  try  their  strength :  we  wear  them 

As  if  they  simply  were  restraints  of  duty, 

And  it  were  sacrilege  to  find  them  heavy. 


MORNING.  59 

Here  is  the  great  support  of  useless  learning : 

That  man  the  best  years  of  whose  life  were  given 

To  arid  studies,  whose  impulsive  youth, 

Whose  vigorous  manhood,  has  restrained  its  soarings, 

Compressed  its  energies,  to  gain  one  end, 

Will  loathly  own  that  end  not  worth  attaining, 

Even  to  himself,  —  above  all,  when  he  sees 

Less  favored  crowds  with  envying  admiration 

Revere  his  inappreciable  merits. 

Shall  he  whom  all  believe  in  doubt  himself? 

[Stanley  and  Dr.  Hermann  continue  to  talk  in  dumb  show. 

EMMA,  aside. 

How  sky  and  trees  and  flowers  looked  kindly  on  me ! 

The  winds,  the  birds,  even  the  humming  insects, 

Had  something  for  me  loving  in  their  tones. 

I  live  in  a  changed  world :  the  glow,  the  beauty, 

The  friendliness  have  passed  away  and  left  it 

Drear  and  unfeeling.     It  is  not  in  me, 

This  change ;  else  why  this  thirst  to  love, 

This  craving  for  the  ample  interchange 

Of  gushing,  warm,  unforced,  unbound  affection  ? 

STANLEY,  to  Hermann. 

'T  is  safe  for  you  to  scoff  at  scholarship. 
A  less  learned  man  could  not  presume  to  do  it. 

HERMANN. 

Men  covet  what  they  cannot  estimate. 

The  unknown  good,  the  unconceived,  has  charms 


60  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Beyond  the  tried.     The  untaught  look  on  learning 

As  a  philosopher's-stone,  a  talisman, 

That  gives  the  wearer  power  and  consequence, 

Invests  him  with  mysterious  distinction, 

With  attributes  whose  realness  can  be  scanned 

But  by  his  peers.     Howe'er  among  themselves 

These  may  divide  and  wrangle,  they  uphold 

The  common  cause  against  outside  assailants,  — 

Let  no  profane  hand  touch  their  ark.     Believe  me, 

'T  is  not  so  much  the  intrinsic  worth  of  learning, 

As  its  contingencies,  inspires  the  crowd 

Of  votaries  real  or  seeming.     Fashion  some, 

Others  ambition  leads,  or  vanity. 

The  patient  seekers  after  truth  are  few ; 

Rare  the  enthusiasts  for  ancient  lore. 

These  seldom  men,  when  found,  deserve  respect 

Proportioned  to  their  genius  or  their  merit. 

Think  not  that  I  would  undervalue  learning, 

Real  learning ;  't  is  the  spurious  I  question. 

To  read  the  history  of  the  human  mind, 

Writ  as  we  find  it  in  the  master  works 

The  long  departed  ages  have  bequeathed  us, 

This  is  no  futile  labor.     To  unfetter 

The  lore  else  sealed  up  in  a  silent  language, 

And  give  it  forth  living  once  more  and  fruitful, 

This  is  no  arid,  no  unthankful  task.  — 

What  in  the  hands  of  genius  is  arid  ?  — 

But  this  asks  something  more  than  scholarship. 

A  poet  only  can  revive  a  poet ; 

A  sage  must  reproduce  the  sage's  work. 


MOENING.  61 

We  are  not  poets  all,  alas  !  nor  sages. 
It  is  not  given  to  all  of  us  to  wield 
The  wizard  wand  of  re-creative  power. 

[Smiting. 

I  almost  think  it  was  not  given  to  me. 

STANLEY. 

You  rate  yourself  lower  than  others  do. 

HERMANN. 

No,  no  !  I  know  my  powers.     They  did  not  lead 

In  that  direction.     On  some  other  path 

I  might  have  come  to  good.     I've  toiled  and  moiled, 

Year  after  year,  on  learned  commentaries, — 

First  those  of  others,  then  upon  my  own. 

No  classic  work  but  I  have  analyzed, 

Have  scanned  as  with  a  microscope.     I  spent 

My  strength  on  doubtful  passages,  proposing 

Here  a  new  reading,  there  suggesting  changes 

In  the  till  then  accepted  punctuation. 

I  changed  the  initial  letters  of  two  words 

In  the  JEneid,  —  and  with  great  advantage  ; 

'T  is  true  indeed ;  two  passages  made  clear 

Which  had  before  greatly  perplexed  the  critics. 

When  I  showed  Helen  how  it  was  before, 

And  how  with  my  new  reading,  she  perceived 

The  importance,  instantly,  of  my  correction. 

STANLEY,  politely. 

Your  labors  were  not,  then,  without  result? 


62  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

HERMANN,  laughing. 
You  see  the  pedant  is  not  dead  in  me  !  — 

[Seriously. 

Not  quite  without  result.     No,  I  may  say  it: 
I  had  successes  better  worth  than  these 
You  have  just  heard  me  boast.     I  've  had  my  share 
Of  fame  in  the  learned  world,  and  I  enjoyed  it,  — 
Yes,  I  enjoyed  it  in  a  certain  measure. 
But  when  that  moment  of  awakening  came ! 
When  the  electric  spark  that  coursed  the  earth 
Reached  me  in  my  calm  study,  when  the  world, 
The  actual  living  world  revealed  itself, 
When  first  I  waked  to  feeling  for  my  kind, 
When  human  hopes  and  human  interests 
Made  claim  on  me,  with  what  another  beat 
Moved  my  strong  pulse !     Yes,  for  one  month  I  lived ! 
I  am  a  broken  and  disheartened  man, 
My  dreams  are  faded,  my  hopes  laid  in  dust ; 
But  still  I  deem  those  fleet  illusions  worth 
More  than  realities  ;  even  now  I  hold 
My  disappointments  dearer  than  my  triumphs.  — 

[  Checking  himself. 

Whither  have  I  been  led  ?     What  matters  now 
My  pedant  life,  or  my  political? 
The  one  has  been  as  fruitful  as  the  other. 

EMMA,  aside,  extending  her  hand  to  the  flowers  upon  the  table.     The 
others  continue  to  converse. 

Only  the  flowers  have  kept  their  faith  with  me. 
They  still  are  kind.     But  they  are  touched  with  sadness. 


MORNING.  63 

They  speak  of  soothing  now,  —  no  more  of  joy. 

If  it  be  true,  as  I  have  heard  it  said, 

That  spirits  gone  from  here  have  leave  to  work 

Upon  the  earth  they  've  left,  —  the  good  and  lovely 

Busied  with  objects  beautiful  and  useful, 

The  wicked  with  the  hurtful  and  unsightly, — 

If  this  be  true,  perhaps  't  is  Agatha's 

To  paint  the  chalice  of  the  opening  flowers ; 

Her  angel  hand,  perhaps,  prepared  the  tints 

Of  these  soft  field-flowers  or  of  those  pure  roses  : 

She  knew  them  destined  to  her  pining  sister. 

Surely,  she  would  not  live  in  glory  there, 

And  see  me  in  my  tedious  earthly  home, 

Nor  strive  to  send  me  solace. 

HERMANN,  to  Stanley. 

Ah,  your  daughter ! 
Her  scholarship  is  of  another  sort,  — 
If  truly  we  may  call  that  scholarship 
Which  is  yet  more  of  nature  than  of  toil. 
Not  by  slow  work,  not  by  a  mole-like  digging, 
Does  she  unearth  the  treasures  of  the  past ; 
With  an  enchanter's  wand  she  summons  them, 
And  they  disclose  themselves. 


Precisely  so. 

HERMANN. 

Often  a  passage  held  as  difficult 

She  has  at  once,  without  a  word  of  comment 


64  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

From  me,  expounded  like  the  ablest  scholar, 
Hitting  the  meaning  with  unerring  instinct. 


Ah,  yes! 

HERMANN. 

Her  fine,  idealizing  sense 
Enables  her  to  recompose  the  scene 
The  poet  pictured,  —  to  reclothe  his  heroes 
With  their  own  form,  reanimate  their  voice  : 
For  her  they  live  and  feel  and  act  again  ; 
For  her  once  more  put  on  their  grace  and  freshness 
The  fairy  tales  that  charmed  the  youthful  world. 
I,  who  in  early  youth  was  set  to  drudge 
Over  these  works,  construing  word  by  word, 
Till  they  had  lost  life  and  significance, — 
Who  in  my  manhood  merely  looked  on  them 
As  offering  themes  for  learned  commentation, 
On  which  to  found  my  fame,  had  not  conceived 
A  mind  so  free  that  it  could  simply  take 
These  works  as  other  works,  as  other  novels,  — 
Delighted,  pained,  admiring,  or  condemning, 
As  it  found  cause,  without  pedantic  carping 
Or  superstitious  reverence,  —  reading  them 
In  the  same  spirit  they  were  written  in, 
Or  that  in  which  they  first  were  listened  to. 
'T  was  in  your  Helen  I  first  found  this  marvel. 
Themes  in  scholastic  hands  grown  dry  and  sterile 
Took  a  new  bloom  for  her;  her  genial  nature 
Infused  them  with  its  life. 


MOKNING.  65 

STANLEY. 

Her  father  feels 

Your  praise  not  more  than  just.     Her  intellect 
Is  truly  of  a  most  uncommon  order : 
The  powers  of  acquisition  and  of  judgment 
Are  found  in  happy  equipoise. 

HERMANN. 

Your  pardon  ! 

These  gifts  are  not  the  intellect's  alone. 
What  we,  for  want  of  better  name,  call  heart 
Has  a  large  share  in  genius,  —  in  hers. 
Her  soul  perceives  the  latent  harmonies 
That  ruder  senses  miss.     She  feels  the  accord 
Between  the  genius  of  a  race,  its  language, 
Its  history  :  thus  each  reveals  the  other. 
Through  some  mysterious  power  of  sympathy, 
The  acts,  the  thoughts  of  distant  times  and  lands, 
To  her  are  as  the  present  and  the  near. 
All  that  is  human  is  akin  to  her. 


Doctor,  how  well  you  understand  my  daughter ! 
I  've  seen  all  this,  but  could  not  have  expressed  it. 
Thank  you  for  helping  me.  —  I  have  some  fears 
That  marriage  with  its  cares  and  occupations 
May  be  to  her,  at  least  in  some  degree, 
What  't  is  to  women  commonly,  the  grave 
Of  talents  and  accomplishments. 


66  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

HERMANN. 

This  fear 

Was  the  sole  drawback  to  the  satisfaction 
I  found  in  teaching  her.     Could  I  have  had 
A  youth  as  pupil  with  such  gifts  as  hers, 
What  joy,  what  pride  for  me !     As  't  was,  I  felt 
That  these  fair  blossoms  might  all  drop  untimely 
And  never  come  to  fruit.     Yet  possibly, 
In  a  young  man's  case,  hindrances  yet  graver 
Had  intervened  to  rob  me  of  my  harvest. 
The  charms  of  the  world,  its  snares,  its  mean  ambitions, 
Prepare  for  men  sometimes  a  heavier  downfall 
Than  women  find  in  that  still  gulf  of  marriage. 
And  truth  to  say,  this  singleness  of  heart, 
This  love  of  beauty  for  pure  beauty's  sake, 
This  sense  of  absolute  truth,  of  absolute  duty, 
When  found  in  men,  is  chiefly  found  in  those 
Whose  course  is  early  closed.     I  might  have  stood, 
A  useless,  lone  old  man,  beside  the  grave 
Where  my  last  cares  and  hopes  lay  mouldering. 
'T  is  better  as  it  is ;  and  who  shall  say, 
Although  no  present  and  apparent  fruit 
Come  of  my  work,  that  it  has  all  been  lost  ? 
Helen  may  pass  through  life  obscure  and  silent ; 
But,  in  her  tranquil  course,  she  may  have  poured 
Into  new  souls  her  genius,  her  wisdom, 
And  they  may  give  forth,  widely  fertilizing, 
The  treasures  drawn  from  these  invisible  springs. 

STANLEY. 

She  wrote  me  she  should  teach  her  boy  herself. 


MORNING.  67 

HERMANN. 

Yes,  there  it  is !  A  mother  will  not  let 
Her  child  be  ignorant  of  what  she  knows, 
If  she  can  help  it ;  and  so  true  is  this, 
The  Icelanders,  a  wise  and  primitive  people, 
Ordain  by  law  women  may  not  be  married 
Till  they  know  how  to  read ;  secure  of  this : 
That  what  the  mother  knows  the  child  will  know. 
Thus  they  provide  for  popular  instruction. 
Ah,  what  you  tell  me  gives  me  pleasure.     Yet 
The  best  intents  are  thwarted.     I  know  not 
Whether  her  husband  shares 


My  son-in-law 

Is  a  good  fellow,  —  a  good  fellow,  Doctor ! 
No  better  heart.     I  'm  sure  you  think  so,  too. 
Somewhat  exacting.     But  we  all  are  so, 
When  we  love  truly.     And  he  worships  Helen. 
You  know  he  loved  her  from  her  infancy. 
It  was  all  settled  between  him  and  me  — 
Rather,  his  father  settled  it  with  me  — 
Before  she  dreamed  of  marriage.     And  in  truth, 
Fancy's  vagaries  were  forestalled  by  me. 
I  taught  her  to  regard  her  fate  as  fixed. 
Thus  I  preserved  her  from  the  wretched  error 
Women  of  genius  and  heart  are  prone  to : 
The  dressing  up  some  hollow  effigy 
With  gifts  and  graces  not  its  own ;  the  making 
For  this  poor  puppet  fatal  sacrifices, 
Deplored  too  late  when  time  has  dissipated 


68  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Forever  the  illusion.     I  at  least 
Secured  my  daughter  wealth,  position,  leisure  : 
Three  real  goods,  which,  if  the  unsubstantial 
Are  added,  only  will  enhance  their  value  ; 
And  if  these  fail,  will  help  to  compensate 
Their  loss, 

HERMANN. 

I  trust  these  will  not  fail;  for  man 
Lives  not  by  bread  alone,  and  still  less  woman. 


Helen  is  happy,  if  a  woman  can  be. 

Her  husband,  handsome,  rich,  and  well  brought  up, 

Has  elegant  tastes,  unusual  cultivation. 

He  has  seen  Europe.     Very  few  young  men 

Have  his  advantages.     Yes,  she  is  happy. 

Besides,  she  loves  him,  —  I  am  sure  of  it,  — 

And  better  since  her  marriage  than  before. 

HERMANN. 

Before,  I  own-;  it,  I  had  some  misgivings. 
That  constant  putting  off 


Oh,  girlishness  ! 

And  then  't  was  natural  she  should  make  no  haste 
To  quit  a  home  of  which  she  was  the  centre, 
The  light,  the  life.     She  could  not  find  herself 
Of  more  importance  or  more  independent 
In  her  own  house.     But,  since  she  must  be  married, 


MORNING.  69 

I  thought  myself  most  fortunate  to  find 

A  match  so  safe,  —  in  most  respects,  so  equal. 

If  I  have  sometimes  said  within  myself, 

"  He  does  n't  deserve  her"  't  is  that  no  man  could, 

And  that  I  ask  a  happiness  for  her 

Of  which  I  think  no  other  woman  worthy. 

But,  if  you  thought  she  was  not  fond  of  him, 

You  were  deceived.     She  did  not  show  it  boldly: 

You  'd  not  expect  that  of  her :  and,  indeed, 

Her  love  was  not  that  trivial,  flighty  sort, 

Made  up  of  tears  and  smiles  and  fond  caprices, 

But  a  kind  sister's  tenderness,  —  the  best 

Foundation  for  a  happy  married  life. 

HERMANN. 

Perhaps  so,  —  yes,  —  no  doubt.     But  yet  sometimes 
It  seemed  to  me  —  you  '11  think  I  am  conceited  — 
She  liked  my  company  as  well  as  his. 
She  often  seemed  more  bright  and  gay  with  me 
Than  with  her  lover. 


She  was  more  at  ease, 

It  may  have  been  ;  and  then  perhaps  she  wished 
To  make  the  most  of  those  last  days  with  you. 
I  saw  with  pleasure,  that,  instead  of  idling, 
As  most  girls  do,  the  time  of  her  engagement, 
She  was  collected  and  industrious, 
Then  as  before,  —  perhaps  a  shade  more  quiet, 
As  well  became  a  woman  entering  on 


70  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

A  change  so  grave.     If  I  had  ever  doubted 
She  loved  him  as  a  wife  should  love  her  husband, 
These  doubts  were  all  removed  on  the  last  visit 
I  made  to  them.     I  thought  I  knew  my  daughter,  - 
Knew  all  her  loveliness,  her  grace,  her  beauty ; 
But,  until  I  had  seen  her  in  her  home, 
I  only  knew  her  half.     I  can't  describe  it, 
This  change,  —  it  was  so  slight,  yet  so  essential. 
When  you  have  seen  her,  you  will  understand. 
Such  perfect  patience !  such  sweet  deference !  — 
You  know  the  best  of  men  are  sometimes  captious. 
Yes,  truly,  love  works  miracles  with  women ! 

[Smiling. 

It  almost  moves  my  jealousy  to  see 
Myself  supplanted  thus. 

EMMA,  starting  up. 

Ah,  that  was  lightning ! 

STANLEY. 

But  very  distant. 

EMMA. 

It  will  soon  come  nearer. 

STANLEY. 

Not  very  soon.     "We  shall  have  some  time  yet. 
We  shall  see  Helen  safe  at  home  before 
The  storm  comes  on  us.     Do  not  be  afraid. 

[Going  near  her. 
Do  calm  yourself.     You  have  seen  storms  before. 


MORNING.  71 

EMMA. 

Only  too  many  !     Oh,  that  night !  that  night ! 

STANLEY. 

'T  is  your  imagination  lends  them  terrors. 

EMMA. 

Imagination  ?     Yes,  and  memory ! 

STANLEY,  kindly. 

You  have,  indeed,  most  sad  associations 

With  thunder-storms ;  but  recollect,  my  Emma, 

You  have  no  loved  ones  now  upon  the  sea ; 

And  if  you  had,  this  storm  which  moves  towards  us 

Would  not  endanger  them.     In  general, 

These  tempests  move  but  in  a  narrow  circuit. 

[Soothingly. 

And  then  this  storm  will  not  be  violent, 
Like  that  you  're  thinking  of. 

EMMA. 

Do  you  believe  not? 
Perhaps  it  will  not.     But  it  seems  so  like  it ! 

STANLEY. 

You  think  the  same  of  every  storm  that  rises. 


That  storm  was  hours  and  hours  in  coming  on. 
Oh,  how  distinctly  I  remember  it ! 


72  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

I  sat  and  watched  the  long,  pale,  silent  flashes, 

Held  to  my  place  by  a  mysterious  dread. 

At  last  my  strained  ear  caught  a  distant  roll, 

And  then  a  fuller  peal.     In  funeral  train 

The  clouds  moved  forward,  heavy,  black,  and  slow. 

And  yet  the  sky  above  me  was  serene ; 

The  air  was"  still.     But,  as  I  marked  this  stillness, 

Sudden  a  frightened  fluttering  of  the  leaves ! 

Then,  all  at  once,  a  tumult  overhead ! 

The  massy  cloud-rocks  crashing  on  each  other! 

The  mad  winds  clutching  at  the  struggling  tree-tops ! 

I  knew  not  then  above  what  trembling  victims 

Those  clouds  had  frowned  before  they  burst  on  us. 

I  knew  not  then  what  sails  those  winds  had  rent 

Before  they  spent  their  fury  on  our  pines. 

And  yet,  perhaps,  that  thrill  of  nameless  dread, 

Unknown  to  me,  a  daughter  of  the  tropics, 

Up  to  that  hour,  even  in  the  wildest  storm, 

Was  my  heart's  answer  to  a  dying  groan, 

Borne  to  me  on  the  swift,  unpitying  blast ! 

STANLEY,  aside. 

The  only  subject  that  can  rouse  emotion 
In  Emma  is  the  shipwreck  of  her  sister 
And  little  cousin. 

HERMANN,  aside. 
What  tenacity 
The  affections  have  sometimes  in  feeble  natures! 


MORNING.  73 


Calm  yourself.     This  excitement  will  exhaust  you. 
Already  you  are  flushed  and  feverish. 

[Going  close  to  her  and  speaking  low. 

'T  is  natural  you  should  recollect  with  kindness 

The  sister  who  was  as  a  mother  to  you, 

And  the  young  playmate  of  your  early  childhood, 

Held  rather  as  a  sister  than  a  cousin. 

I  do  not  blame  the  strength  of  your  attachments  : 

But  recollect  how  many  years  have  passed ; 

Remember  all  you  have  to  make  you  happy. 

Cannot  the  husband,  then,  replace  the  friend? 

The  little  girl  whose  early  death  you  mourn, 

Is  she  not  more  than  given  back  in  Helen  ? 

EMMA,  aside 
She  is  not  given  back,  my  little  sister !  — 

[Aloud. 
Yes,  I  am  calm.     I  did  not  mean  to  vex  you. 

STANLEY. 

It  is  not  often  that  you  vex  me,  Emma, — 

[Aside. 
Or,  for  that  matter,  move  me  any  way. — 

[To  Emma. 

You  are  tranquillity  itself,  in  general. 
Come,  cheer  up  !  These  sad  looks  would  grieve  our  child.  — 

[Aside. 

I  must  have  patience  with  her  feebleness  ; 
For  is  she  not  the  mother  of  my  Helen  ?  — 


74  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

[Aloud,  looking  at  the  flowers  in  the  vase. 
What  pretty  flowers  !  how  tastefully  arranged ! 
You  always  have  a  fairy  world  about  you! 

EMMA,  smiling. 

Yes,  they  are  beautiful !     Who  gathered  them  ? 
I  found  them  here  when  I  came  down  this  morning. 
I  thought  at  first  that  Helen  had  arrived, 
And  had  prepared  me  this  surprise.     I  looked 
To  see  her  come  out  from  behind  the  curtain, 
As  formerly.  — 
[Aside. 

She  is  a  dear,  good  child  ! 

STANLEY. 

What !  all  these  flowers  you  found  here  ? 

EMMA. 

No,  —  this  vase  full. 

The  others  Bella  brought.     I  always  send  her 
Out  every  morning  to  bring  in  the  flowers, 
And  then  I  see  them  all  arranged  myself. 

STANLEY. 

The  Doctor  smiles. 

[To  the  Doctor. 

Is  this  your  mystery  ? 

HERMANN, 

No,  no,  —  not  mine !     But  I  perhaps  can  solve  it. 


MORNING.  75 

As  I  came  over  early  in  the  morning, 

Not  to  be  wanting  at  the  first  reception, 

I  saw  that  wan-faced,  silent  girl,  Theresa, 

Stealing  along  the  garden-walk  before  me, 

Her  apron  filled  with  flowers.     As  her  whole  air 

Betokened  secrecy,  I  stopped  discreetly, 

Studying  the  plants  that  grew  beside  the  walk, 

And  then  went  sauntering  on  the  longest  way 

Towards  the  house.     As  I  approached  the  window  — 

This  one  —  and  stooped  to  raise  the  sash  and  enter, 

I  heard  the  sliding  of  another  sash 

In  the  same  room,  and,  turning,  saw  Theresa 

In  the  act  of  issuing  forth.     She  did  not  greet  me, 

But  glided  off  in  silence. 


That  Theresa! 

Why  does  the  strange  thing,  by  her  wayward  silence, 
Take  from  me  the  enjoyment  of  my  life  ? 
I  never  had  a  girl  I  cared  so  much  for, 
Nor  one  that  seemed  to  be  so  faithful  to  me. 
I  really  thought  it  was  a  true  attachment. — 

[Aside. 
But  for  me  disappointment  everywhere ! 

STANLEY. 

You  're  not  distressing  yourself  now  for  that  ? 

EMMA. 

No,  no,  —  I  don't  distress  myself. 


76  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


I  hope  not.  — 

Doctor,  what  say  you  ?     See,  the  sky  looks  ctear. 
It  will  not  rain  yet.     Shall  we  take  a  stroll 
Along  the  avenue  to  meet  the  carriage  ? 
The  people  have  been  drawn  up  there  an  hour 
Or  more,  to  greet  their  mistress  when  she  enters. 
'T  will  be  a  pretty  scene,  and  we  shall  have 
A  smile  from  Helen's  eyes  some  half-hour  sooner. 

HERMANN. 

Thanks,  many  thanks!     That  hope  were  bribe  enough 
For  a  less  pleasant  walk  ;  but  this  needs  none. 


Emma,  in  passing,  I  send  Bella  to  you  ; 
When  we  return,  we  bring  you  something  precious. 
[Stanley  and  Hermann  go  out. 


They  leave  me  here  to  meet  the  storm  alone  ! 
What  's  Bella  ?     What  can  she  do  for  me  ?     Oh, 
I  shall  die  here  of  fear  and  loneliness  !  — 

[She  goes  to  the  window,  looks  out,  returns  calmer,  and  seats  her 
self  on  the  sofa. 

My  Helen  comes !     My  lovely,  graceful  Helen  ! 
And  with  her  —  Hecate  comes !     Ah,  there  it  is ! 
Hecate  comes  back  to  freeze,  to  petrify  me  ! 
And  everybody  thinks  she  's  so  devoted  ! 
They  wonder  I  could  give  her  up  to  Helen.  — 


MORNING.  77 

How  I  remember  when  she  first  came  near  me ! 

I  felt  her  fix  her  basilisk  eyes  on  me, 

And  a  cold  shiver  ran  through  all  my  veins. 

Was  it  a  warning  sent  to  me,  perhaps  ?  — 

Every  one  envied  me  my  handsome  slave. 

I  had  not  enough  courage  to  refuse  her. 

Why  did  I  not  ?     O  Hecate !  my  life's  varnpire  !  — 

Yet  I  have  nothing  to  reproach  her  with,  — 

Or  only  with  too  constant  a  devotion.  — 

How  high  she  held  herself,  the  silent  creature  ! 

Dumb  out  of  pride,  —  not  out  of  ignorance, 

As  we  supposed  at  first.  —  When  first  I  heard 

The  accents  of  her  voice,  how  strange  a  thrill 

Shot  through  my  heart!     It  was  again  a  warning. — 

It  was  for  Helen  that  she  broke  her  silence. 

Yes,  yes,  she  came  between  me  and  my  child  ! 

And  this  is  why  I  cannot  love  my  daughter 

As  other  mothers  do.     O  Helen,  Helen, 

Could  my  heart  once  gush  out  for  you  in  fondness  ! 

[  Clasping  her  hands  passionately,  and  rising. 

Could  I  but  once  enjoy  a  mother's  rapture, 
In  full,  full,  overflowing,  deluging  measure, 
And  yield  my  soul  in  that  o'erwhelming  bliss  ! 
That  moment,  that  death  moment,  should  repay  me 
My  torpid  life  !  — 

[Sinking  down  again. 

No,  it  is  not  for  me  !  — 

[After  a  pause,  tenderly. 

How  did  I  long  for  you,  my  pretty  darling, 
Before  you  came !  how  did  I  press  my  lips 


78  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

On  that  dreamed  cheek !  how  did  I  twine  my  fingers 
In  airy  ringlets  of  imagined  gold  ! 

0  precious  one  !  O  little  unseen  daughter ! 
Dearer  even  now  than  is  my  living  child ! 

Yes,  when  you  came,  you  should  restore  me  all : 
My  Agatha  should  live  again  in  you ; 
The  love  my  parent-sister  poured  on  me 

1  should  return  to  you  in  seven-fold  measure, 
And  that  which  my  fond  heart  had  felt  for  her 
Should  throb  for  me  in  my  sweet  daughter's  bosom! 
Oh,  all  those  tedious  years  of  lonely  life 

Passed  with  that  hard,  dry,  selfish  hypocrite, 
That  governess  of  mine,  and  my  stern  father, 
How  did  they  disappear  and  melt  in  nothing ! 
My  coming  life  appeared  to  link  itself 
To  the  far  past :  these  made  my  whole  existence. 
I  almost  thought  I  always  had  been  happy. 
And  when  the  time  came  that  I  was  to  press  you 
Real  and  substantial  in  these  waiting  arms, 
Oh,  it  was  Hecate  held  you  up  to  me ! 
Oh,  it  was  Hecate  laid  you  on  my  bosom !  — 
How  came  she  there  ?     I  did  not  send  for  her,  — 
I  did  not  want  her.  —  When  I  felt  the  touch 
Of  my  own  child,  it  was  not  what  I  looked  for. 
My  heart  stood  still,  instead  of  bounding  up. 
Something  came  in  between  my  babe  and  me. 
It  was  her  love.     That  creature  dared  to  love  it ! 
She  dared  to  vie  in  tenderness  with  me 
For  my  own  infant!  — 

I  am  very  weak ! 


MORNING.  79 

I  know  I  'm  weak.     I  'm  sure  that  Stanley  thinks  so. 

}T  is  so,  or  I  had  never  let  her  nurse  it. 

Yes,  I  am  weak,  —  or  only  strong  to  suffer !  — 

What  was  she  to  my  child,  that  she  should  love  it  ? 

My  happiness  was  poisoned  at  its  source. 

In  vain  my  baby  bloomed  in  health  and  beauty ; 

I  could  not  love  with  fulness  of  enjoyment. 

I  saw  her  little  arms  thrown  fondly  round 

That  neck,  her  head  reposing  on  that  bosom! 

Yet  could  I  sooner  have  forgiven  the  love 

The  unreasoning  child  bestowed  upon  its  nurse 

Than  that  strange  chill  that  sat  on  my  own  heart. 

Did  I  not  love  her  ?     Did  I  not  admire  her  ? 

Had  I  not  pride  in  her  ?     Yes,  all  of  this ! 

Yet,  even  as  she  sat  upon  my  lap, 

And  I  was  fondling  her  with  every  mark 

Of  fullest,  deepest  love,  when  I  looked  round 

And  saw  that  stranger  woman  standing  near, 

Ready  to  take  my  not  unwilling  darling, 

I  felt  the  impotence  of  my  dull  heart. 

Her  silent  look  said  more  than  my  caressings. 

I  sank  back  baffled,  weary,  inly  owning 

The  nurse's  tenderness  was  more  than  mine. 

It  was  a  spell  that  woman  cast  on  me. 

These  Africans  are  skilled  in  dreadful  arts, 

Which  they  transmit,  the  mothers  to  their  daughters, 

And  they  to  theirs.     Hecate  might  well  be  one 

To  share  this  fearful  legacy.     Her  look  — 

And,  above  all,  when  it  is  fixed  on  me  — 

Has  something  in  it  of  undying  pain, 


80  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Mixed  with  exulting  triumph,  that  might  suit 

A  priestess  of  those  temples  that  they  tell  of 

Where  men  pay  worship  to  the  fallen  spirit. 

It  holds  me  still,  this  chilling,  cramping  spell ! 

I  wait  my  child,  not  as  the  mother  waits 

Whose  fond  protecting  love  requires  an  object 

To  foster  and  support.  — - 1  foster  Helen  ! 

I  guide  and  counsel,  I  admonish  her, 

As  mothers  do !     Poor,  little,  feeble  woman, 

I,  guardian  of  that  vigorous,  noble  creature  ! 

She  is  less  mine  than  ever  !     For  my  infant 

I  could  in  part  fulfil  the  mother's  office, 

Could  minister  at  times  to  little  wants, 

Could  aid  to  conquer  petty  obstacles, 

Could  soothe  in  childish  troubles,  fancied  dangers,  — 

Could  at  least  feel  myself  the  wiser,  stronger. 

But,  ah,  how  soon  she  passed  beyond  my  reach! 

I  am  the  earthbound  bird  that  sees  the  swanlet 

Its  wings  have  brooded  soaring  high  in  space.  — 

It  is  my  birthday  !     No  one  thinks  of  it, 

Except  that  poor  half-crazy  girl,  Theresa! 

These  were  her  gift,  these  flowers  I  thought  so  kind. 

Why  did  she  bring  them  ?     Not  to  do  me  pleasure.  — 

They  are  all  white,  as  for  a  bride  —  or  corpse. 

In  her  mind  had  they  some  significance  ?  — 

Perhaps  they  are  a  sign  of  penitence. 

Her  heart  may  have  been  touched  by  Helen's  coming.  — 

Perhaps  she  thought  of  Helen's  little  boy. 

Yes,  white  means  innocence.  —  Perhaps  she  meant 


MORNING.  81 

A  type  of  the  pure  joy  of  this  reunion. 
I  '11  take  it  so. 

[She  goes  to  the  table,  leans  over  the  vase,  and  touches  the  flowers. 

And  yet  I  do  not  feel  it. 

Since  I  have  known  these  flowers  were  brought  by  her, 
It  seems  to  me  their  leaves  are  touched  with  blight. 
They  look  at  me  as  in  reproach  or  warning. 
What  would  they  say  to  me  ?     What  pain  awaits  me  ?  — 
No,  nothing  new  !     The  present  is  sufficient ! 
These  pallid  flowers,  plucked  by  unloving  hands, 
Alone  remind  of  my  neglected  birthday.  — 

And  yet  perhaps  Helen  did  not  forget  it. — 

[  With  joy. 

She  thought  of  me,  when  she  arranged  this  journey  ! 
My  Helen  thought  of  me  !     I  hear  her  say,  — 
"  That  day  shall  give  my  mother  back  her  daughter." 
And  shall  I  be  the  last  to  welcome  her  ? 
Why  do  I  stay  ?     The  clouds  are  passing  off. 
The  storm  but  threatened.     Some  few  drops  of  rain, 
And  it  is  over.     All  my  idle  fears 
Pass  off  as  easily !     My  heart  feels  light, 
As  suits  the  day  that  gives  me  back  my  child. 
My  child!  Sweet  words  !  And  this  day  brings  her  back  ! 

[She  goes  to  the  window. 

The  flowers  repeat  it,  the  birds  warble  it ! 
All  Nature  seems  to  sing  in  happy  chorus  : 
"This  day  shall  give  the  mother  back  her  child!" 

[She  goes  out. 


82  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


MORNING. 

SCENE  III. 

STANLEY  and  HERMANN  are  walking  together  in  a  wide  avenue.  On 
one  side  are  trees;  on  the  other  an  open  lawn.  They  stop  at  a  spot 
where  a  large  tree  has  been  left  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  ave 
nue,  which  widens  out  on  either  side  of  it.  The  slaves  in  holiday 
attire  are  ranged  along  the  avenue,  or  form,  groups  on  the  lawn, 
or  are  looking  out  from  behind  the  trees. 

HERMANN. 

A  cheerful  scene,  and  full  of  poetry, 

To  me,  a  European !     These  dark  faces, 

These  vivid  hues,  this  profuse  gesture,  —  all 

That  speaks  the  sun-born  and  the  youthful  race 

Has  a  keen  charm  in  it  to  one  like  me, 

Who  live  in  thought,  in  whom  emotion,  impulse, 

So  long  held  down,  almost  forget  their  rights. 

When  first  I  landed  on  your  shores,  I  found 

Not  what  I  had  imagined.     Everywhere 

I  saw  another  Europe :  busier, 

More  energetic,  and  more  self-reliant, 

But  the  same  world,  engrossed  by  the  same  cares, 

Pursuing  the  same  ends,  with  more  success, 

Because  with  greater  freedom,  and,  alas 

That  I  must  say,  devotion  more  exclusive. 

The  freshness,  the  exuberance,  the  slighting 

Of  the  cold  actual  for  the  warm  ideal, 

All  those  rash  virtues,  those  endearing  faults, 


MOKNING.  83 

That  I  had  thought  must  mark  the  youthful  race, 
Existed  only  in  my  foolish  hope. 
It  seemed  this  people  had  been  born  mature : 
I  found  an  age  of  reason  permanent. 

STANLEY. 

And  you  object  to  this? 

HERMANN. 

Oh,  I  approve  it! 

That  is  to  say,  one  half  of  me  approves  it : 
The  other  found  it  rather  same,  perhaps, 
And  sad.  —  The  very  child  encountered  me 
With  such  a  thoughtful,  penetrative  glance, 
I  felt  myself  the  boy,  and  him  the  world-wise. 
Youth  I  found  not.     Hardly  I  caught  its  trace 
Upon  the  hollow  cheek  of  a  gaunt  stripling, 
Or  in  the  patient  eyes  of  some  poor  woman: 
Its  mirth,  its  lightness,  its  enthusiasms 
Held  down  and  choked,  the  forms  it  should  have  graced 
Bearing  the  impress  only  of  its  struggles. 

STANLEY. 

You  saw  the  North. 

HERMANN. 

I  saw  at  first  the  North. 
But  even  here  I  found  again  my  Europe. 

STANLEY. 

Yes,  there  you  found  its  factories,  its  workshops  ; 
And  here  you  meet  its  culture,  its  refinements. 


84  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

HERMANN,  aside. 

I  will  not  flatter  him,  and  must  not  wound. 
What  shall  I  say  ? 

STANLEY. 

It 's  very  praiseworthy, 
Hard-handed  labor,  —  most  respectable. 
The  sturdy  farmer,  the  expert  mechanic 
Are  valuable  members  of  the  state. 
The  country  that  has  all  its  boast  in  these 
Has  strength,  has  solid  wealth.     But  the  refinements, 
The  true  delights  of  life,  the  higher  tastes, 
Find  their  development  but  where  two  races 
Inhabit  the  same  soil :  one  being  destined 
To  furnish  the  material  wants  of  life, 
And  one  to  cultivate  the  finer  graces. 

HERMANN. 

One  made  for  work,  the  other  for  enjoyment. 


If  you  prefer.     I  only  state  a  fact  : 

I  do  not  justify  its  being  one. 

But  toil  and  taste,  producing  and  consuming, 

Are  not  in  this  world  cast  in  one  man's  lot. 

Coarse  food  contents  the  clown  whose  labor  yields 

The  spicy  fruits,  fine  grains,  and  delicate  wines 

That  court  the  Sybarite's  exacting  palate. 

The  artisan  scarce  values  his  own  work : 

He  paints,  he  carves  but  for  another's  eyes ; 

And  he  that  weaves  seldom  knows  how  to  wear. 


MORNING.  85 

No, —  these  two  separate  classes  need  each  other. 

The  lower  from  the  surplus  of  the  higher 

Draws  its  subsistence  ;  while  those  finer  wants 

Which  it  knows  not,  but  which  to  the  superior 

Are  real  needs,  its  labor  satisfies : 

Happy  when,  as  in  Europe  once,  as  here, 

Fixed  barriers  divide  the  working  classes 

From  those  whose  office  is  to  think  and  rule. 

That  restless  striving,  that  uneasy  envy, 

Which,  at  the  North,  and  in  those  states  called  free 

Of  the  Old  World,  disturb  the  poor  man's  peace, 

Are  here  unknown :  his  birth  has  fixed  his  station. 

The  high,  the  low,  take  from  the  hand  of  Fate, 

Unquestioning,  their  lot.     And  no  injustice. 

To  those  the  manual  toil,  —  to  these  the  mental. 

To  us  belong  the  joys  of  aspiration ; 

To  them  the  calmer  pleasures  of  contentment. 

HERMANN,  aside. 

I  had  been  prompt  once  to  take  up  the  gauntlet. 
But  now,  —  no,  no,  let  the  world  wag ;  I  'm  old. 

STANLEY. 

And  so  you  found  us  all  too  European : 
There  too  much  industry,  here  too  much  ease  ? 

HERMANN. 

Why,  something  so. 

STANLEY,  complacently. 

You  are  not  so  far  wrong. 


86  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

la  the  North  you  find  your  thrifty  middle  classes  ; 
We  represent  your  aristocracy. 

HERMANN,  with  sudden  energy. 
Ah,  if  you  knew  the  noble  race  as  I  do, 
You  would  less  willingly  find  this  resemblance ! 
I  've  seen  them  near :  I  know  their  vain  ambitions, 
Their  empty  cares,  false  pride,  and  splendid  meanness 
Spending  a  fortune  on  a  feast,  and  bating 
In  the  same  day  the  wage  of  some  poor  mother ! 

STANLEY,  with  a  little  hauteur. 

'T  is  natural  that  you  should  hold  your  views, 
And  I  my  own.     We  see  from  different  stand-points. 

HERMANN,  not  perceiving  Stanley's  pique. 
'T  is  somewhat  strange  here  in  America 
Our  old  noblesse  possesses  the  prestige 
That  has  died  out  in  Europe.     You  imagine 
That  nobleness  goes  with  nobility. 
We  know,  we  others.     But  this  Scotch  Magician, 
This  Great  Unknown,  as  people  like  to  call  him, 
Is  the  chief  source  of  your  illusions.     He 
Has  given  to  rank,  which  man's  caprice  created, 
That  homage  we  should  only  pay  to  those 
Whom  the  Eternal  hand  has  signed  for  honor. 


The  stamp  of  chivalry,  of  high-souled  courage, 
Of  loyalty,  of  generous  self-devotion, 
Are  not  these  marks  divine  ? 


MORNING.  87 

HERMANN. 

And  these  you  lend 

To  the  noblesse  of  Europe !     Mere  illusion ! 
They  won  their  place  by  brutal  violence  ; 
Have  kept  it  by  tenacious  selfishness. 
Look  from  the  bosom  of  old  Father  Rhine ! 
Behold  on  every  cliff  the  robber's  nest, 
Whence  in  old  time  their  vulture  eyes  peered  down 
To  mark  where,  borne  on  his  benevolent  tide, 
The  laden  bark  advanced,  their  destined  prey  ! 
Look  round  in  Switzerland,  in  Italy ! 
See,  on  the  heights,  their  crumbling  fastnesses, 
Joy  of  the  dilettante  traveller, 
Traditional  object  of  the  peasant's  hate ! 
Here  were  the  cradles  of  our  old  noblesse. 
Rapine  and  murder  watched  its  infancy; 
Its  riper  years  more  organized  wrong  protected. 
And  now,  in  its  decrepitude,  you  see  it 
Grasping  with  trembling  hand  its  worn  insignia, 
Alternating  a  doting  insolence 
With  palsied  fear,  as  its  security 
Is  shaken  or  flattered  by  the  year's  event. 
I  've  heard  Americans  regretting  blandly    . 
Their  land  had  none  of  these  romantic  ruins 
That  crown  our  heights  and  overlook  our  rivers. 
"  Our  Hudson  were  as  lovely  as  your  Rhine," 
I  've  heard  them  say,  "  had  we  but  your  old  castles." 

STANLEY. 

'T  is  true,  though.     I  have  thought  the  same,  myself. 


TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

HERMANN. 

Ah,  if  your  land  consents  to  envy  Europe, 

Let  it  be  rather  for  the  wealth  of  art 

Laid  up  for  it  by  humble,  patient  hands ; 

Or  be  it  for  the  victories  won  in  science 

By  silent  toil  of  calm,  secluded  men  : 

Not  for  these  monuments  of  crime  and  vengeance. 

Happy  the  land  whose  sons  have  piled  no  stones 

But  those  laid  up  by  bloodless  hands  ;  whose  fabrics 

Dread  no  attacks  but  those  of  time !     Grudge  not 

The  older  world  the  mournful  poetry 

That  wreathes  itself  about  those  blackening  ruins ! 

STANLEY. 

You  find,  then,  something  in  our  land  to  praise? 

HEKMANN. 

Much,  much  to  praise,  and  a  few  things  to  love, — 
Even  in  the  bustling,  striving  North ;  and  here 
My  heart  and  fancy  can  both  find  their  food.  — 

[Interrupting  himself,  as  lie  sees  a  gratified  expression  steal  over 
Stanley's  face. 

I  do  not  speak  now  of  your  social  circles; 
Choice  as  they  are,  they  offer  nothing  new : 
They,  like  the  rest,  are  a  transplanted  Europe. 
Nor  was  I  even  thinking  of  our  Helen  : 
She  is  herself ;  no  land  lays  claim  to  her ; 
That  is  apart ;  there  is  my  life  of  lives. 
But  for  my  idle  studies,  for  refreshing 
Of  my  warped,  dried-up  faculties,  I  stroll 


MORNING.  89 


Before  the  cabins  of  this  primitive  people, 
Or  sit  me  down  amid  a  scene  like  this. 


Among  the  blacks  ?     They  are  sometimes  amusing : 
They  have  quick  senses,  and  some  native  fun. 

HERMANN. 

But  you  yourself,  though  born  and  bred  among  them, 
Have  scarcely  known  so  much  of  them  as  I. 
You  cannot  view  them  in  the  light  that  I  do. 
You  see  them  worse  or  better  than  they  are. 
Their  wits  are  sharpened  by  desire  to  please, 
Or  blunted  by  the  dread  of  blame.     They  wait 
Upon  your  look.     They  smile  or  draw  long  faces, 
Whine  dolefully  or  speak  in  chirping  tones, 
To  keep  in  tune  with  your  imagined  humor. 
But  me,  the  dreaming,  silent  foreigner, 
They  mind  me  not  more  than  the  waving  branches, 
Or  innocent  winds,  that  bear  away  their  words, 
But  not  report  them.     Thus  their  cares,  their  joys, 
Their  loves  and  hates  express  themselves  before  me 
In  their  own  natural  language  :  word,  look,  gesture, 
Unstudied,  unrestrained.     Stretched  on  the  turf, 
Or  propped  against  some  pine-tree  trunk,  I  bathe 
My  world-worn  soul  in  this  fresh  gushing  Nature, 
As  in  the  fabled  youth-restoring  spring. 

STANLEY,  smiling. 

What  a  true  German !     Doctor,  give  me  leave 
To  smile  a  little  at  your  poet  ardor. 


90  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

HERMANN,  laughing  cordially. 

Free  leave !  free  leave !     I  knew  you  could  not  see 

What  I  can  see.     For  you  it  is  not  there. 

But  never  mind.     Let  me  enjoy  my  feast, 

And  you  your  laugh.     You  have  a  brilliant  world 

To  lead  your  life  in  :  wealth,  power,  influence. 

I  only  have  my  studies  and  my  dreams. 

STANLEY. 

Under  which  head  are  classed  your  present 


HERMANN. 

Ravings  ? 

Under  both  heads,  perhaps.     Man  is  my  study, — 
This  poor  maligned  and  deified  human  nature, 
Its  lights  and  shades,  its  strengths  and  weaknesses. 
But,  as  I  am  a  simple  amateur, 
And  my  researches  have  no  aim  of  profit, 
Whether  for  me  or  for  the  world,  I  hardly 
May  call  my  studies  more  than  reveries. 
But  be  that  as  it  will,  I  can  pursue  them 
With  interest  untired  among  a  people 
Still  in  the  golden  age  of  faith  and  fancy, 
Not  risen  up  to  that  of  doubt  and  reason. 
Then  it  is  touching  to  my  heart,  the  fate 
Of  this  poor  orphaned  race,  whose  opening  youth 
Is  trained  by  no  too  tender  stepdame.     Yet 
To  Cinderella  in  her  dismal  corner 
Came  fairy  gifts;  and  to  this  abject  people 
Flow  from  the  world  of  fancy  infinite  comforts 


MORNING.  91 

That  elder,  happier  races  hardly  know. 

Not  easy  to  repress  the  joy  of  youth 

In  races  any  more  than  single  children.  — 

I  will  say  something  strange  :  In  this  New  World, 

What  I  have  found  of  youth  and  poetry 

I  have  found  here. 

STANLEY. 

You  have  found  poetry  ? 

HERMANN. 

Lived,  looked.     Nor  only  lived  and  looked,  but  sung: 
All  except  written.     Not  a  circumstance 
Checkers  their  life  or  yours  but  has  its  minstrels. 
Each  joy,  each  sorrow  passes  into  song 
That  mates  itself  with  a  congenial  music,  — 
Now  deeply  mournful,  now  so  wildly  glad, 
As  if  the  pining  spirit,  cramped  and  baffled 
Within  its  crouching  frame,  had  found  an  outlet 
And  soared  to  sudden  freedom. 

On  your  shelves 

I  see  the  Scottish  minstrelsy,  I  see 
Servian  anthology,  Icelandic  ballads ; 
In  fine,  you  have  a  choice  herbarium 
Of  the  wild-flowers  of  other  lands,  and  leave 
Those  that  spring  up  about  your  feet  to  wither, 
Unculled,  uncared  for:  yet  they  might,  perhaps, 
Take  place  beside  their  sisters.       I  once  heard 
A  slow  lament,  sung  by  a  gray  old  man 
Whose  little  granddaughter  was  sold  away, 
That  seemed  to  me  for  melody  and  pathos 


92  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

To  have  few  rivals  in  the  primitive  verse 
Of  infant  peoples.     'T  was  not  on  your  place ; 
'T  was  on  your  neighbor's  there. 


Ah,  yes,  —  I  know. 

Shabby  of  him.     I  don't  approve  his  course. 
If  his  affairs  compelled  him  to  adopt  it, 
'T  would  be  another  thing ;  but  he  is  rich. 
Only  some  grave  offence,  or  their  own  choice  — 
Through  some  caprice,  or  marriage  off  the  place, 
Or  so  —  can  make  me  send  my  people  off. 

HERMANN. 

I  know  it.     They  have  not  that  cause  of  grief 
To  exalt  their  souls  to  poetry.     But  sorrow 
Has  many  inlets  to  the  human  soul; 
And  the  slave's  life,  be  lenient  as  you  will, 
Is  liable  to  some  vicissitudes. 

STANLEY. 

Less,  though,  than  that  of  others.  —  Did  you  hear, 
Speaking  of  music,  —  did  you  ever  hear 
The  girl  Theresa,  when  she  sang  her  best? 

HERMANN. 

When  I  came  here  she  was  already  silent. 

STANLEY. 

The  fault  of  that  ungrateful  dog,  her  son.  — 


MORNING.  93 

You  find  them  poets,  then  ?     I  've  sometimes  heard 
Their  songs  from  far,  but  did  not  catch  the  words. 
The  airs  I  have  found  pleasing.     Yes,  for  music 
Some  of  them  have  a  real  gift,  I  grant  you. 

HERMANN. 

I  marvel  no  appreciative  hand 

Has  yet  caught  up  these  wandering  melodies. 

The  time  will  come  when  these  neglected  strains 

Will  charm  in  hall  and  drawing-room.     You  smile. 

Who  knows  ?     What  if  the  earliest  contribution 

Truly  original,  that  this  New  World 

Makes  to  the  gentler  arts,  should  be  the  product 

Of  this  poor  foundling  ? 

I  have  sometimes  thought 

This  unformed  race,  scarce  issued  from  its  childhood, 
Has  been  brought  hither  from  its  ardent  birthplace 
That  its  warm  blood  may  give  a  fuller  pulse 
To  veins  grown  too  sedate  by  time  and  wisdom  ; 
As  over  Europe's  passionate,  fervid  South 
Was  once  sent  down  the  cool  Transalpine  flood. 


That  thought  could  come  but  from  a  European, 
But  from  a  German. 

HERMANN. 

Yes,  we  Germans  have 
Few  prejudices  on  the  score  of  race. 
We  live  beneighbored  by  not  kindred  peoples. 


94  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Some  of  them  hate  us.    But  we  hate  them  not ; 

Content  to  absorb  them,  —  having  for  allies 

Time  and  our  own  superiority. 

You  Anglo-Saxons  hold  your  sacred  blood 

Too  precious  to  be  mixed  with  other  streams. 

You  frown  upon  the  Celt,  your  cousin-german ; 

Frenchmen,  Italians,  not  their  Roman  lineage 

Makes  them  your  equals  ;  and  the  lofty  Spaniard 

Encounters  pride  more  steadfast  than  his  own  ; 

Your  brother  German  finds  a  mild  disfavor. 

As  for  the  humbler  and  more  distant  branches 

Of  the  human  family,  you  hardly  deign 

To  count  them  kindred.     That  it  could  bring  profit 

To  your  high  race  to  blend  its  stream  with  theirs, 

What  blasphemy ! 

STANLEY. 

But  little  less,  indeed  ! 

Your  satire  is  not  quite  without  foundation, 
Perhaps,  in  what  concerns  the  higher  races, 
Who  stand  with  us  on  the  same  grade  of  culture ; 
But  as  regards  a  union  with  the  lower, — 
Or,  if  you  like  it  better,  undeveloped,  — 
We  cannot  guard  the  purity  of  blood 
Too  carefully. 

HERMANN. 

Yet  scorn  them  not  too  far : 
Their  turn  may  come,  perhaps.     Remember,  men 
Do  not  take  seed  of  a  perfected  fruit, 
When  they  would  raise  new  sorts,  but  rather  choose 


MORNING.  95 

Some  ruder  kind,  half-way  to  excellence. 

And  thus  it  is  with  races  :  a  fresh  people 

Must  in  its  nature  have  rough  elements, 

That,  when  toned  down  by  social  contact,  trained 

By  formal  culture,  it  may  still  be  racy, 

Not  weakened  into  mediocrity. 

The  world  is  for  the  young.  —  Your  nation's  youth 

Is,  after  all,  a  pseudo  youth.     Behold, 

It  is  a  scion  from  an  ancient  tree, 

Not  a  new  seedling !     Whether  is  it  destined, 

As  I  have  heard  old  farmers  say  of  grafts, 

To  pine  and  dwindle  with  the  parent  tree, 

Bearing  distempered  fruit  on  failing  limbs, 

While  yet  its  separate  life  is  new?     This  question 

Time  only  can  decide. 

STANLEY. 

I  am  not  sanguine. 

But,  if  we  fail,  I  find  the  cause  of  failure 
Not  in  the  race,  but  in  the  institutions 
That  offer  no  restraint  to  innovation. 
A  government  that  follows  the  direction 
In  which  the  passions  of  the  mob  impel  it, 
What  pledge  for  permanence  ?  what  pledge  for  safety  ? 

HERMANN. 

You  will  not  fail !     I  did  but  theorize,  — 

An  idle  pastime.     No,  you  will  not  fail. 

I  find  my  hope  there  whence  you  draw  your  fears. 

With  freedom,  Nature  finds  her  own  defence 


96  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Against  the  causes  of  decline.     In  vain 

Will  prejudice  propose  its  poor  specifics. 

The  sturdy  health  that  is  the  gift  of  freedom 

Discards  all  nostrums.     Not  by  stern  exclusion, 

But  generous  welcome,  will  your  favored  nation 

Guard  its  preeminence.     Your  friendly  shores, 

Offering  a  second  home  to  those  whose  boldness 

Has  earned  proscription,  or  whose  enterprise 

Desires  a  wider  field,  prepares  the  advent 

Of  a  new  race  upon  the  human  scene : 

Not  new  in  name,  but  young  in  hope  and  vigor. 

That  energetic  land  from  which  you  draw 

Your  love  of  sway  and  love  of  liberty 

Thus  kept  its  manhood  green.     Its  tide  of  life, 

Still  freshened  by  infusion  of  new  blood, 

Rolled  full  and  strong  while  lands  whose  narrow  rule 

Attracted  no  recruits  declined  and  dwindled. 

Yet  there  was  but  a  type,  a  prophecy 

Of  what  shall  find  fulfilment  here,  —  the  germ 

Of  the  fair  blossoms  and  the  generous  fruits 

That  here  shall  teem. 

Your  nation  is  not  born. 
The  spirit  is  but  shaping  now  the  form 
For  a  new  incarnation.     Lands  and  races 
The  most  remote,  the  most  estranged,  contribute 
The  elements  of  this  fresh  life.     Destruction 
Will  work  for  it,  as  will  creative  power; 
Discord  as  harmony;  regret  and  pain 
Must  have  their  part,  as  well  as  hope  and  joy. 
But  in  the  fitting  time  the  God-informed 


MORNING.  97 

Will  stand  forth  fair  and  strong,  and  take  upon  him 
His  office  in  the  world. 

[  The  noise  of  carriage-wheels  is  heard,  then  ceases. 

STANLEY. 

Hark  !  was  not  that 

No 

HERMANN. 

Yes!     The  carriage  stops.     She  is  alighting. 
She  has  divined  that  we  await  her  here. 
This  was  a  favorite  spot  with  her.     This  tree, 
Sole  lingerer  of  the  primeval  forest, 
Had  for  her  eyes  the  charm  that  desolate  sternness 
Has  for  the  kind  and  happy.     Here  they  are ! 

[HELEN  enters,  followed  by  HECATE,  who  carries  the  child. 

STANLEY. 

Helen ! 

HELEN,  springing  forward  to  meet  him. 

My  father ! 

[Helen  embraces  her  father,   then  turns  and  gives  her  hand  to 
Hermann. 

My  best  Doctor! 
[EMMA   enters.     Helen  hastens  to  meet  her,  and  embraces  her 


EMMA,  returning  Helen's  embrace. 

Darling ! 
HERMANN,  aside. 

The  same,  —  and  yet  her  countenance  is  other. 
She  has  passed  through  another  phase,  I  see. 


98  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

EMMA,  whispers. 

You  love  me,  Helen? 

HELEN. 

Dearest  mother ! 

EMMA. 

Truly  ? 
Darling !     You  really  love  her,  then,  your  mother  ?  — 

[Aside. 

She  is  not  now  so  far  from  me  as  once. 
Has  she  known  sorrow,  then  ?     'T  is  probable. 

HELEN,  holding  her  mother's  hand  in  both  hers,  and  speaking  low  and 
tenderly. 

I  did  not  love  her  half  enough  before. 
I  never  knew  how  mothers  loved  their  children, 
Till  I  had  one  to  love.     You  felt  for  me 
All  that  I  feel  for  him  ? 

EMMA. 

All  ?     All,  and  more  ! 

You  have  so  many  gifts,  have  so  much  knowledge ! 
I  knew  but  how  to  love,  to  love  my  child  ! 


Your  children  now.     What  happy  days,  my  mother, 
We  will  all  have  together  !  — 
[Looking  round  for  her  child. 

Where  's  my  darling  ? 


MORNING.  99 

FLORA,  coming  forward. 

Hecate  has  carried  him  the  shortest  way 
Towards  the  house. 

EMMA,  aside. 

Hecate !     She  comes  between  me 
And  all  I  love.     Even  this  happy  moment 
Her  name  embitters. — 
[To  Helen. 

What !  without  your  order  ? 


She  fears  the  sun  for  him.     She  might  have  waited 
Till  you  had  given  him  a  first  caress.  — 
But  you  have  not  to  learn  what  Hecate  is. 
You  know  her  waywardness  and  faithfulness, — 
Both  due,  perhaps,  to  your  indulgence. 

EMMA. 

Yes,- 
My  false  indulgence.     I  am  very  weak. 

HELEN,  caressingly. 
Not  so !  but  kind,  and  win  more  love  than  fear. 

EMMA. 

She  does  not  love  me,  Helen;  do  not  think  so. 
I  have  a  touchstone  here  by  which  I  know  it : 
I  should  love  anything  that  gave  me  love,  — 
So  much  I  need  it.     Her  I  do  not  love, 
And  cannot.     Out  of  spite  to  me,  I  know 


100  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

She  has  withdrawn  the  child  from  my  embrace. 
She  knew  how  full  my  heart  must  be,  how  eager, 
And  made  herself  a  joy  of  thwarting  me. 

HELEN. 

Let  us  suppose  that  she  has  hastened  forward, 
Not  thinking  you  had  strength  to  come  so  far, 
To  bring  the  darling  to  your  arms  the  sooner. 

EMMA,  smiling,  but  not  satisfied. 
Oh,  you  were  always  ready  with  excuses 
To  shield  your  nurse. 

HELEN,  smiling. 

And  you  to  listen  to  them. 

[  EZEKIEL  enters :  perceiving  the  group  in  the  avenue,  he  turns 
aside,  after  fixing  his  eyes  for  an  instant  upon  Helen,  and 
is  lost  in  the  crowd  on  the  lawn.  TUKPIN  enters  with  him, 
and  disappears  with  him. 

STANLEY. 

Was  that  Ezekiel,  whom  they  call  the  Preacher  ? 

HERMANN. 

The  same. 

STANLEY. 

A  sturdy  fellow  for  a  saint ! 

HELEN,  with  interest. 
Was  that  Ezekiel  ? 


MORNING.  10 1 

STANLEY. 

I  don't  like  that  man. 
You  'd  better  not  encourage  him  to  come  here. 

HELEN. 

What  has  he  done? 

STANLEY. 

Oh,  nothing  that  I  know  of; 
His  bearing  does  not  please  me. 

HERMANN. 

He  is  manly. 

STANLEY. 

A  slave  has  no  occasion. 

HERMANN. 

Yet  a  man 
Works  better  than  a  tool  without  a  soul. 

STANLEY. 

I  demand  very  little  of  my  people. 

They  are  contented,  and  content  their  master. 

HERMANN. 

That  is  enough.     The  fellow  who  came  after,  — 
He  is  not  yours? 

STANLEY. 

He  would  not  be  mine  long. 


102  TRAGEDY  OF  ERROES. 

HERMANN. 

I  should  not  like  to  have  that  face  about  me. 

If  ever  evil  demon  lived  in  man, 

One  looked  out  from  those  lurid  eyes  of  his. 

[  DORCAS  enters,  and  endeavors  to  attract  Helen's  attention  by  curt 
sying  repeatedly. 

HELEN. 

Ah,  it  is  Dorcas !  — 

[To  Dorcas. 

Where  is  Perdita? 

DORCAS,  curtsying. 
She  stayed  at  home  a-nursing  her  sick  child. 

HELEN,  surprised. 
Her  child? 

DORCAS. 

Why  not?     Fair  as  loblolly -bay  flowers. 
The  mother  's  not  so  bad ;  but  he,  a  pearl ! 
A  cunning  little  footboy  for  the  mistress, 
If  he  'd  grown  up,  or  groom  for  master's  brother. 
Great  honor  for  him,  if  he  lived  for  it! 

HELEN. 

The  child  is  sick  ? 

DORCAS. 

And  likely  to  be  sicker. 

He  '11  never  come  to  stand  behind  your  carriage 
Or  hand  your  plate.     He  '11  miss  all  that,  the  creature  ! 


MORNING.  103 

HELEN,  to  Emma. 
Did  you  know  this? 

EMMA. 

No,  —  no  one  told  me  of  it. 

HELEN. 

She  has  no  medicines,  then  ? 

DORCAS. 

She  does  not  need  them. 

Has  she  not  me  ?     Am  I  not  worth  ten  doctors  ? 
I  know  things  no  one  in  this  country  knows  : 
I  have  tried  all.     I  would  not  have  him  die, — 
Such  luck  as  he  was  born  to !     Perdita, 
The  daughter  of  the  mistress'  favorite  girl, 
What  might  her  son  not  get  ?     But  so  it  is : 
Some  die  and  leave  their  luck  before  they  taste  it, 

[Shaking  her  head  mournfully. 
And  some  outlive  it ;  and  some  live  it  out,  — 

[Smiling  and  curtsying. 

As  master  will,  and  mistress. 

HELEN,  to  Emma. 

Shall  we  go 
And  see  poor  Perdita?     She  may  need  aid. 

EMMA. 

Send  it  by  Dorcas. 

DORCAS, 

Send  by  me,  Miss  Helen ! 


104  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

EMMA. 

Send  it  by  Hecate,  by  the  girl's  own  mother. 

DORCAS. 

Send  it  by  me.     I  'm  more  than  an  own  mother. 

EMMA. 

Send  what  she  wants.     Give  anything  you  like. 
Only  don't  talk  of  her.     Don't  let  me  see  her. 
Her  presence  irritates  me. 

HELEN. 

Dearest  mother, 
So  kind  to  all,  and  only  not  to  her! 


Don't  blame  me, — don't  reproach  me, — don't  you,  Helen ! 

One  thing  I  cannot  bear,  nor  ever  could  : 

To  be  found  fault  with.     And  by  you !     No,  no ! 

I  cannot  tell  you  why  I  should  dislike  her. 

'T  is  not  on  purpose.     People  have  their  natures. 

There  are  to  whom  the  strawberry  is  a  poison  ; 

The  scent  of  roses  makes  some  people  sick ; 

With  me,  it  is  the  sight  of  Perdita. 

I  'm  sure  I  'm  sorry  that  the  child  is  ill, 

And  hope  it  may  get  well.     Let  Dorcas  take  her 

All  that  she  needs,  whatever  you  can  think  of; 

But  I  don't  want  to  see  her. 

DORCAS,  aside. 

Not  so  strange 


MOKNING.  105 

As  you  may  think,  young  mistress,  in  your  mother ! 

The  pale  thing  has  some  human  blood  in  her. 

She  has  not  wit  enough  to  think  it  out, 

But  has  a  sense  she  has  been  wronged  somehow. 

I  know  it  all.     I,  silly,  poor  old  Dorcas, 

Hold  all  these  threads  here  in  these  trembling  hands  ; 

I  pull  them  as  I  will,  this  way  and  that ; 

Know  all  their  secrets  ;  yes,  know  more  of  them 

Than  they  themselves.     O  cunning  brain  of  mine, 

[Tapping  her  forehead. 

What  do  you  hold  ?     Who  looks  at  your  brown  case 
And  guesses  what  is  locked  there  ?     I  must  dance  ! 
I  cannot  hold  my  joy  down ! 

STANLEY,  who  has  been  talking  apart  with  Hermann. 

I  see  well 

I  shall  have  none  of  Helen's  time  this  morning. 
The  births,  the  deaths,  the  accidents,  the  weddings, 
The  various  ailments,  all  must  be  reported, 
Congratulated,  counselled,  or  condoled  on. 
I  '11  go  my  way  until  all  this  is  settled. 
The  merry  Alice,  too,  will  soon  be  here ; 
And  there  will  be  a  world  of  confidences  : 
'T  is  always  so.     Well,  we  shall  meet  at  dinner. 
To  know  you  here  must  be  enough  till  then. 
The  quiet  evening  will  be  all  our  own.  — 
Doctor,  you  have  not  seen  my  new  improvements. 
I  've  urged  them  on,  that  they  might  be  completed 
For  Helen's  coming. 

[To  Helen. 

You  '11  be  charmed  with  them. 


106  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

This  evening  I  shall  take  you  to  admire  them. 
By  moonlight  the  effect  is  even  better. 

[To  Hermann. 

I  '11  take  a  last  look  before  Helen  sees  them, 
To  make  sure  all  is  right.     Will  you  go,  too  ? 

[  Stanley  and  Hermann  go  out. 

DORCAS,  aside. 

But  I  don't  want  her  coming  to  my  cabin. 
And  Hecate,  —  above  all,  I  don't  want  her. 
What  can  they  do  there  ?     I  can  dose  the  child  : 
I  '11  do  my  all.     What  should  I  let  it  die  for  ? 
It 's  no  such  boon  to  live.  — 
[To  Helen. 

Don't  vex  yourself 

To  come  to  her  this  morning.     Mind  the  mistress. 
I  made  the  worst  of  it.     You  know  we  do. 
In  fact,  it  was  n't  so  much  the  child  that  kept  her. 
She  knows  her  face  is  not  the  welcomest, 
And  never  comes  into  the  mistress'  way, 
Unless  she  's  bidden.     Take  your  ease  this  morning. 
The  child  will  do.     He  's  nothing  else  but  cross. 
He  '11  soon  come  round. 

WOMAN,  who  had  been  pressing  forward. 

Dorcas  is  in  the  right. 
It  is  too  soon  to  plague  her  with  our  matters. 

VOICES. 
Too  soon !    too  soon !    We  '11  wait,  —  wait  till  to-morrow. 


MORNING.  107 

OTHER    VOICES. 

We  '11  wait !  we  '11  wait ! 

OLD  MAN,  to  Helen. 

Make  yourself  comfortable, 
And  think  of  nothing  at  all.     Our  wants  will  keep. 


Thank  you,  good  friends !    You  shall  not  lose  by  waiting. 

EMMA. 

What  do  they  say  ? 

HELEN. 

The  child  is  not  so  ill 
As  I  supposed  at  first. 

[Smiling. 

Old  Dorcas  says 
She  made  the  worst  of  it. 

EMMA. 

I  knew  she  did. 


I  will  not  ask  you  to  extend  your  walk. 
To-morrow  I  will  see  poor  Perdita. 

[To  the  people. 

Enjoy  yourselves  to-day.     Go,  have  your  feast. 
Bella  will  bring  you  something  more  from  me. 
To-morrow  those  who  have  requests  to  make 
May  come  to  me. 


108  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

MANY  VOICES. 

Thanks,  mistress  !     Thanks,  Miss  Helen  ! 

HELEN,  to  Emma. 

We  will  walk  slowly.     Use  my  strength  for  yours. 
How  sweet  it  is  to  feel  you  lean  on  me  ! 

EMMA,  aside. 

How  could  I  ever  think  she  did  not  love  me, 
And  even  doubt  if  I  loved  her  ?     At  last 
I  'm  happy !     Oh,  how  happy  could  I  be, 
Did  not  the  thought  of  that  weird  Hecate  flit 
Across  me,  as  the  shadowy,  noiseless  bat 
In  summer  evenings  through  our  darkening  hall ! 
[They  disappear  among  the  trees. 


TEAGEDY    OF    ERRORS. 


NOON. 


TEAGEDY    OF    EKKOKS. 


NOON. 

SCENE.  —  A  large,  low  room  in  the  upper  story.  'Book-cases  and  other 
furniture  of  carved  black  wood.  HELEN  is  seated  near  a  table. 
ALICE  enters,  loaded  with  flowers,  which  she  throws  down  on  the 
table  as  she  speaks. 


In  your  old  haunt !     I  knew  it !     Here  are  flowers 
To  deck  it  with:  not  those  bold  garden-flowers 
That  stand  to  be  admired,  —  but  such  sweet  shy  ones, 
That  I  would  not  have  forced  them  from  their  shade, 
But  for  a  bower  secluded  as  their  own. 
They  droop  already.     Ah,  these  savage  flowers 
Are  not  so  patient  as  the  tame !  — 
[To  FLORA,  who  enters. 

Some  vases. — 

[Flora  goes. 
Oh,  I  have  walked  so  far ! 


But  not  alone? 


112  TKAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

ALICE. 

No,  not  alone.     But  guess,  though,  who  was  with  me. 
You  cannot  guess ! 

HELEN. 

Hecate  ? 

ALICE. 

No  less  a  person. 

I  don't  know  how  I  came  by  such  an  honor. 
She  never  used  to  think  it  worth  her  while 
To  give  herself  much  trouble  for  my  sake. 
Perhaps  with  her  clear  sight  she  has  read  through  me, 
And  knows  how  dearly  I  love  you,  my  Helen ! 
Whatever  loves  you  has  a  claim  on  her. 
Did  you  observe  how  she  caressed  the  spaniel 
That  yelped  out  such  delight  at  seeing  you? 
But,  whether  for  your  merits  or  my  own, 
Hecate  to-day  was  all  devotion  to  me. 
She  knows  the  forest  as  I  know  my  garden: 
The  very  guardian  fairy  of  the  flowers 
Finds  not  more  surely  their  sweet  hiding-places. 
'T  was  a  strange  pleasure  that  I  found  in  wandering 
Through  the  dim  paths  with  that  mysterious  creature. 
Sometimes  I  really  almost  felt  afraid, 
As  I  walked  on  and  heard  her  step  behind: 
I  seemed  to  feel  her  gleaming  gaze  fixed  on  me. 
But  when  I  turned  to  look  at  her,  her  eyes 
Rested  on  mine  with  such  a  gentle  glance 
I  wondered  at  my  fears  ;  yet  soon  again 
Would  the  same  awe  creep  over  me.     I  must 


NOON.  113 

Still  look  and  look,  and  still  convince  myself, 
That,  when  I  looked  before,  I  saw  aright. 
I  never  knew  her  as  she  is  to-day: 
To-day  I  hardly  wonder  that  you  love  her. 
She  has  been  always  such  a  riddle  to  me, 
Such  an  unreal,  mysterious  apparition, 
That  your  confiding  love  for  her  appeared 
Like  those  spell-bound  affections  that  we  read  of. 
I  hardly  even  dared  to  ask  about  her, 
Fearing  to  draw  her  anger  on  my  head, 
And  feel  the  influence  of  some  hurtful  charm. 
The  awe  I  felt  before  her  in  my  childhood 
Has  never  quite  worn  off.     Until  to-day, 
She  's  been  to  me  a  half-unearthly  creature  : 
But  now  I  shall  begin  to  think  her  human. 
Is  it  the  joy  of  the  return  has  changed  her? 

HELEN. 

That  cannot  be ;  for  she  has  seemed  less  sad, 
This  year  that  she  has  been  away  with  me, 
Than  I  have  ever  known  her.  —  My  poor  Hecate ! 
I  have  a  heavy  grief  in  store  for  her. 

[FLORA  enters  with  vases,  and  places  them  on  the  table.  At  a  sign 
from,  Alice,  she  goes.  Alice  arranges  the  flowers ;  from  time 
to  time  leaving  them,  as  she  becomes  interested  in  the  conver 
sation,  and  then  returning  to  them  again. 


A  grief  for  Hecate,  Helen  ? 
8 


114  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

HELEN. 

She  must  leave  me. 
When  we  go  home,  she  must  remain  behind. 

ALICE. 

How  can  you  think  of  it  ?     'T  will  kill  her ! 


Herbert 


Oh,  yes !     I  understand !     He  is  not  used 
To  such  a  queenly  bearing  in  a  slave. 
Really,  it  is  no  wonder.     'T  is  like  having 
Zenobia  in  chains  to  wait  on  you. 
Poor  Hecate !  't  is  a  grief  for  her,  indeed ! 


I  shall  do  all  I  can  to  lighten  it. 

To  me  this  parting  will  be  no  slight  pain. 

Seeing  her  only  as  you  see  her,  Alice, 

You  cannot  know,  —  and  Herbert  does  not  know 

What  she  has  been  and  what  she  is  to  me. 

ALICE. 

Oh,  yes !     I  see !     Never  was  such  devotion. 


Nor  is  it  only  the  unreasoning  fondness 
Nurses  so  often  lavish  on  their  darlings 
That  I  have  had  from  her;  but  more,  much  more. 


NOON.  115 

Eccentric  as  she  is,  undisciplined 

As  seem  her  feelings,  she  can  be  to  me, 

When  I  have  need  of  it,  friend,  counsellor, 

The  truest,  wisest.     In  my  infancy 

My  mother  left  me  wholly  in  her  charge  : 

Yet  did  she  never  try,  by  false  indulgence, 

To  win  my  love ;  never  used  artifice  ; 

Never  taught  me  to  use  it;  but  maintained 

Firmness  and  truth:  hard  virtues  for  a  slave  ! 

ALICE. 

Truth  a  hard  virtue  for  a  slave  ?     Say,  rather, 
Impossible.     I  have  seen  every  virtue 
In  servants  but  that  one. 

HELEN. 

This  power  to  speak 

The  truth  and  act  the  truth  confirms  her  story 
That  she  was  born  in  freedom.     The  first  years 
Govern  the  after-life. 

ALICE. 

How  came  she  here? 


No  one  knows  what  she  is,  nor  whence  she  came. 
My  father  bought  her  at  a  public  sale, 
Shortly  before  his  marriage,  and  presented 
Her  to  my  mother  as  a  bridal  gift. 


116  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

ALICE. 

How  did  she  come  by  this  strange  name  of  Hecate  ? 


She  answered  loathly  to  the  name  they  gave  her 

She  had  another  of  her  own.    I  once, 

Trying  to  call  her  as  she  called  herself, 

In  my  imperfect  speech,  found  this  by  chance, 

And  ever  since  she  has  been  known  by  it  : 

For  this  strange  name,  so  innocently  given, 

Fits  her  wild,  brilliant,  almost  fearful  beauty. 


You  well  may  call  it  fearful  !     Till  to-day 

I  always  shunned  her.     When  she  has  proposed 

To  do  me  any  service,  I  refused  it. 

Jt  seemed  she  offered  it  in  mockery, 

And  knew  I  should  not  dare  receive  it  of  her. 

Others  have  felt  this ;  I  am  not  alone. 

HELEN. 

From  the  first  hour  that  she  came  here  to  this, 

No  menial  service  has  been  asked  of  her. 

When  she  first  came,  her  youth,  her  splendid  beauty, 

Her  constant  silence,  —  for  she  knew  no  language 

Spoken  by  any  here,  —  and  her  proud  sadness, 

Woke  in  my  mother  such  a  blended  feeling 

Of  awe  and  pity,  that  she  suffered  her 

To  follow  her  own  course  in  everything : 

To  come  and  go,  to  sit  by  her  and  work, 


NOON.  117 

Or  wander  through  the  woods,  as  pleased  her  best. 
She  never  showed  her  gratitude  in  words, 
Or  even  in  look,  but  held  towards  my  mother 
The  same  stern,  lofty  bearing  as  to  others. 
Yet  such  was  her  attachment  to  her  mistress, 
That,  though  her  own  child  was  not  two  hours  old, 
Hecate  was  with  my  mother  at  my  birth  ; 
And,  as  she  since  has  often  told  me,  hers 
Were  the  first  lips  that  pressed  a  kiss  on  mine. 


Ah,  to  you,  Helen,  she  is  always  gentle. 
She  is  not  Hecate,  when  she  speaks  to  you. 


She  was  my  nurse.     She  has  for  me  the  feeling 

That  these  poor  women  have  towards  their  nurslings 

A  love  so  strong  that  it  sometimes  supplants 

The  love  they  ought  to  have  for  their  own  children. 

It  often  makes  me  sorrowful  to  think 

That  I,  who  have  so  much  to  make  me  happy, 

Take  from  poor  Perdita  the  highest  good 

Her  lot  could  let  her  know,  —  a  mother's  love. 

I  cannot  hide  it  from  myself,  that  Hecate, 

In  all  else  so  unlike  a  slave,  has  this 

In  common  with  the  meanest :  she  is  wanting 

In  love  and  sense  of  duty  to  her  child. 

ALICE. 

To  you  so  fond!     Helen,  how  beautiful 


118  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

She  is,  when  her  dark  eyes  rain  down  on  you 
Their  tenderness !  Had  she  not  been  a  slave, 
What  might  she  not  have  been! 

HELEN. 

Ah,  what  indeed  !  — 
[Helen  remains  silent  for  a  few  moments. 
At  least  since  she  has  been  with  us,  she  has  not 
Known  harshness  or  injustice.     I  might  say 
That  in  this  house  she  rather  rules  than  serves. 
The  other  servants  stand  in  awe  of  her 
Far  more  than  of  their  mistress  or  my  father. 
Even  he  allows  in  her  the  lofty  bearing 
He  would  not  suffer  in  another  slave. 
And  over  me,  I  own  it,  she  has  gained 
An  influence  almost  equal  to  a  mother's. 
No  mother  could  have  been  more  kind,  more  patient. 
How  would  she  watch  by  me,  when  I  was  ill ! 
The  cold,  stern  Hecate  was  the  gentlest  nurse ! 
The  first  words  that  she  spoke  were  said  to  me. 
For  two  whole  years  after  her  coming  here, 
She  uttered  not  a  word  in  any  language  ; 
When  suddenly,  as  if  by  inspiration, 
She  could  speak  English  with  a  purity 
Seldom  attained  by  people  of  her  class,  — 
Even  by  those  who  are  brought  up  among  us, 
And  never  hear  another  language  spoken. 


Her  native  language  is  not  English,  then  ? 
What  is  it?  French? 


NOOK.  119 

HELEN. 

We  do  not  know.     We  think 
That  she  speaks  English  with  a  Spanish  accent. 
Yet  this,  perhaps,  may  be  accounted  for : 
She  may  have  caught  this  accent  from  my  mother, 
Whose  native  language,  as  you  know,  was  Spanish. 
Hecate  herself  maintains  a  resolute  silence 
Upon  this  point,  as  upon  all  that  could 
Help  us  to  find  out  her  true  origin. 
French  she  can  understand,  but  cannot  speak ; 
Spanish  she  does  not  speak  nor  understand  ; 
English  she  speaks, — how  well  you  know,  how  purely. 


What  trace  there  is  of  foreign  idiom 

Seems  but  to  give  originality 

And  a  peculiar  grace  to  all  she  says. 

She  speaks  as  one  might  who  has  learned  by  reading, 

Not  by  the  ear. 

HELEN. 

Yet,  when  she  came,  they  say, 
She  could  not  read. 

ALICE. 

And  now  she  reads  so  well! 
How  did  she  learn? 

HELEN. 

She  may  have  learned  with  me  : 
She  was  by  always,  when  I  had  my  lessons. 
I  well  remember  that  she  used  to  help  me, 
And  make  me  say  them  over  in  my  playtime. 
When  I  was  eight  years  old,  she  read  at  least : 


120  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

She  used  to  read  aloud  to  me  for  hours. 
Since,  it  has  been  one  of  my  greatest  pleasures 
To  hear  her  read,  recite,  or  improvise. 

ALICE. 

Oh,  I  remember  well  her  charming  tales ! 
When  I  was  here,  if  she  began  to  tell  one, 
I  could  not  keep  away,  although  I  feared  her. 
She  had  about  her  a  strange  fascination  ! 
I  felt  it,  though  with  as  much  dread  as  pleasure. 

HELEN. 

And  I  with  pleasure  only.     I  would  sit 
And  look  on  her  as  on  a  picture,  listen 
To  her  rich  voice  as  to  delightful  music, 
While  she  recounted  stories,  half  invention 
And  half  remembered  fragments,  or  caressed  me 
With  such  a  lavish  wealth  of  loving  words  ! 
Thus  have  I  known  her.  —  She  has  other  moods. 


She  only  shows  to  you  her  lovely  side. 

But  I  have  seen  her  under  all  her  phases. 

I  often  make  a  call  at  Dorcas'  hut  ;  — 

That  strange  old  creature  has  attraction  for  me  ;  — 

There  I  've  seen  Hecate  with  her  own  poor  daughter ; 

She  is  an  altered  being ! 

HELEN. 

There  combined 


NOON.  121 

She  sees  the  guilt  and  shame  of  the  two  races : 
Hates  her  white  blood  as  that  of  her  oppressors, 
Loathes  the  dark  blood  that  makes  her  child  a  slave. 
But,  Alice,  oh,  how  cruel  the  condition 
That  could  pervert  a  nature  such  as  hers! 


Poor  Perdita !  the  quiet,  patient  creature ! 
But  for  your  kindness,  I  should  pity  her. 
She  seems  to  have  no  thought  but  of  her  duty. 


Yes,  Perdita  at  least  was  born  a  slave, 

And  has  no  wish  or  hope  above  her  lot. 

Hecate  asserts  her  life  began  in  freedom, 

And  that  the  man  who  sold  her  as  a  slave 

Did  so  against  all  right.     Her  father's  death, 

"Which  happened  on  a  journey,  suddenly, 

Left  her,  her  infant  brother,  and  their  mother, 

Dependent  on  the  service  of  a  man 

Who  had  come  with  them  from  their  distant  home, 

Where  he  had  been  their  steward.     Her  poor  mother, 

Feeble  alike  with  illness  and  with  grief, 

In  a  strange  land,  speaking  a  foreign  language, 

Trusted  this  man  to  act  for  her.     He  offered 

To  be  their  escort  to  the  city  whither 

Their  journey  lay,  and  where  they  had  near  friends. 

She  left  to  him  the  arrangements.     They  arrived, 

After  a  tedious  fortnight,  late  one  night, 

In  a  large  town.     The  steward  carried  them 


122  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

To  a  low,  dismal  tavern  in  the  suburbs ; 

They  were  conducted  to  an  upper  room  ; 

The  door  was  locked,  the  key  withdrawn.     They  passed 

A  sleepless  night,  divided  between  fears 

And  smiling  at  their  fears.     They  watched  with  longing 

To  hear  the  steward  come.     It  was  not  day 

When  the  steep  staircase  creaked  with  cautious  footsteps. 

The  door  was  opened,  and  a  woman  entered, 

Holding  a  little  lamp  ;  four  others  followed. 

Without  a  word,  but  with  imperious  gestures, 

They  forced  poor  Hecate  and  her  fainting  mother 

To  dress  themselves  in  coarse,  ill-fashioned  garments. 

A  covered  wagon  took  them,  thus  disguised, 

To  a  large  building.     After  some  hours'  waiting 

In  a  bare  cell  whose  door  was  firmly  barred, 

They  were  led  out  into  a  wide,  low  hall 

Crowded  with  men,  resounding  with  loud  voices. 

Here  Hecate's  hand  was  wrested  from  her  mother's. 

Confused,  amazed,  she  understood  no  more 

What  passed  before  her.     It  was  only  later 

She  knew  she  had  been  sold,  —  she  was  a  slave  ! 

ALICE. 

What  a  strange  story !     Oh,  if  it  were  true ! 


Her  mother's  and  her  little  brother's  fate 
She  never  learned.     All  that  remained  to  her 
Of  her  old  life  was  her  black  waiting-woman, 
Who  clung  to  her,  and,  by  a  happy  chance, 


NOON.  123 

Was  bought  by  the  same  man,  —  a  needy  planter. 

His  small,  remote  plantation  was  shut  in 

By  hills  on  one  side,  little  naked  hills, 

And  on  the  other  bounded  by  pine-barrens. 

Her  life  was  here  as  dreary  as  the  landscape. 

The  master's  poverty  with  double  weight 

Bears  on  the  slave.     But  not  alone  the  food 

Scanty  and  coarse,  the  insufficient  clothing, 

The  harsh  refusals  and  the  sharp  revilings, 

Not  these  alone  made  Hecate's  misery ; 

The  want  of  all  that  nourishes  the  fancy; 

The  absence  of  all  beauty,  of  all  change, 

Awoke  within  her  a  more  cruel  craving 

Than  bodily  wants  can  cause.     The  master's  house 

Itself  was  mean  and  low  and  poorly  furnished. 

No  trailing  vines,  no  rich  o'ershadowing  trees 

With  outward  beauty  screened  the  inward  bareness. 

The  wretched  negro  huts  were  all  alike, 

Set  in  straight  rows,  and  not  a  shrub  or  flower 

Redeemed  their  squalor.     To  that  lonely  region 

No  traveller  came.     Either  there  were  no  neighbors, 

Or  intercourse  with  them  was  interdicted : 

For  no  strange  face  was  seen  on  the  plantation, 

Unless  it  were  when  a  new  laborer 

Came  to  replace  one  that  was  dead  or  sold. 

Hecate  has  often  told  me  of  those  years  : 

Only  the  pictures  that  came  back  to  her 

Out  of  her  early  childhood,  as  she  said, 

Enabled  her  to  live  and  keep  her  reason. 


124  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

ALICE. 

How  came  she  here? 

HELEN. 

Upon  this  planter's  death, 
The  people  were  sent  off  and  sold.     A  dealer 
Bought  Hecate  and  the  girl  who  came  with  her 
From  her  first  home.     He  brought  her  to  this  State 
And  offered  her  for  sale.     My  father  saw  her 
By  accident,  and  bought  her  for  my  mother. 
The  other  woman  begged  so  earnestly 
Not  to  be  parted  from  her,  that  my  father 
Bought  her,  too,  —  that  same  Dorcas  whom  you  spoke  of. 

ALICE. 

What  can  we  think  of  this  strange  tale  ? 


My  father 

Says  Hecate's  pride  makes  her  desire  to  think 
Herself  free-born :  slaves  often  have  this  fancy. 
Yet  he  made  earnest  efforts,  for  my  sake, 
To  learn  the  truth ;  but  all  without  avail. 
Hecate  herself  would  give  us  no  assistance. 
Her  father's  name  has  never  passed  her  lips  ; 
She  says  she  has  forgotten  it;  but,  when 
I  press  her,  such  a  fearful  agitation 
Shakes  her  whole  frame,  she  looks  so  wild,  so  woful, 
That  I  must  think  she  has  some  hidden  motive 
To  keep  it  from  us,  and  I  cease  to  urge. 
My  mother  thinks  this  is  sufficient  proof 


NOON.  125 

That  the  whole  story  is  a  fabrication, 

Or,  at  the  least,  a  fanciful  delusion, 

On  Hecate's  part.     She  thinks  it  could  not  be 

A  child  should  thus  forget  a  father's  name, 

Or,  knowing  it,  in  such  a  case  conceal  it. 


And  yet  the  exiles  in  Siberia 

Sometimes  forget  their  names,  though   they  were   sent 

there 

After  they  were  grown  men.     Why  not  a  child, 
Taken  so  suddenly  from  all  she  loved, 
Placed  in  new  scenes,  new-named  in  a  strange  language  ? 


Perhaps,  if  all  be  as  she  says  and  thinks, — 
If  she  has  borne  an  honorable  name,  — 
She  dreads,  after  so  many  years'  abasement, 
To  claim  her  rank  and  family  once  more. 
What  grief,  what  shame  for  her,  in  the  return 
To  her  lost  home  of  innocence ! 

ALICE. 

Poor  Hecate  ! 

HELEN. 

Whether  she  once  were  free  or  born  in  bondage, 

She  has  in  her  a  sense  of  dignity 

That  we  do  not  attribute  to  the  slave. 

How  my  heart  bleeds  for  her,  poor,  injured  creature, 

When  I  think  over  all  she  must  have  suffered ! 


Of    THE 

IVF&S5T/ 


126  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Here  is,  no  doubt,  the  secret  of  her  strangeness, 
Her  varying  moods,  her  coldness  to  her  child. 


And  is  not  this  susceptibility 

Itself  a  proof  that  she  was  born  in  freedom? 

She  may  be  free !     She  may  be  even  white  ! 

Oh,  what  a  horror,  if  the  case  were  so ! 

Such  things  have  happened.     I  have  heard  a  story 

Of  a  poor  boy,  light-haired,  blue-eyed,  they  said, 

Who  was  for  seven  years  believed  a  slave. 

He  proved  to  be  the  child  of  foreign  parents 

Who  had  died  suddenly.     It  was  decided 

The  little  fellow  was  to  have  his  freedom.  — 

And  Hecate  has  no  trace  of  negro  blood ; 

Nor  has  her  daughter. 

HELEN. 

But  among  our  servants 
Whose  origin  we  know,  are  some  yet  whiter. 


Yes,  —  Roxy's  grandson,  Daffy.     Then  there  's  Chloe ; 
And  there  was  Minta,  and  her  pretty  boy. 
Pity  they  died,  poor  things  !     But  Dorcas,  — 
What  did  she  tell  you?     Did  you  question  her? 
Her  mind  is  weak  and  wandering,  —  but  she  might, 
Perhaps,  remember  what  passed  long  ago, 
Though  she  forgets  what  happened  yesterday. 


NOON.  127 


She  never  could  be  brought  to  give  an  answer 
In  a  straightforward  way  on  any  subject. 
"When  questioned  about  Hecate,  she  becomes 
More  vague  and  wayward  even  than  usual. 


The  man  whose  slave  she  was,  you  know  his  name? 


It  was  a  common  one.     The  dealer  knew  it, — 

But  nothing  else  about  him.     Hecate  says 

His  place  was  in  a  newly  settled  State. 

She  went  to  it  from  where  she  first  was  sold 

By  a  rough  road  that  seemed  interminable  : 

She  could  not  tell  what  time  the  journey  took, 

It  was  so  full  of  pain  and  so  unvaried. 

After  his  death,  she  says  she  travelled  far 

To  reach  the  place  where  she  was  sold  again. 

The  dealer  bought  her  in  the  far  Southwest, 

And  she  had  come  there  from  still  farther  South. 

Vague  indications  to  direct  our  search  ! 

Then  years  had  passed  before  she  told  her  story. 

She  told  it,  too,  not  fully  and  at  once, 

But  first  in  hints.     Then  slowly,  piece  by  piece, 

Came  out  the  history  I  have  given  you. 

How  much  of  it  is  true,  and  how  much  fancy, 

Or  others'  story  mingled  with  her  own, 

It  is  not  easy  to  decide.     At  first 

I  listened  to  these  tales  as  to  the  rest, 


128  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Finding  in  them  only  the  hour's  amusement; 
But  later,  seeing  with  how  deep  a  feeling, 
What  minute  details,  what  consistency 
The  story  was  repeated,  I  began 
To  see  more  in  it  than  a  woven  dream. 
I  may  be  wrong,  —  her  strong  imagination 
Gives  such  a  lifelike  color  to  her  pictures. 
But  I  have  notes  of  all  that  she  has  told  me  ; 
My  father  has  the  name  of  her  first  master, 
And  of  the  man  who  sold  her  to  himself. 
"With  these,  if  time  and  accident  —  no,  if 
The  overruling  hand  of  Providence 
Should  offer  us  one  day  the  guiding  clue. 
We  may  explore  this  mystery.     Till  now 
My  efforts  have  been  fruitless. 

ALICE. 

But,  if  Hecate 

Dreads  the  discovery,  why  should  you  seek 
To  give  her  back  what  she  would  not  regain? 


Ah,  there  is  something  in  us  which  impels 

To  work  for  justice,  to  defend  a  right, 

Without  respect  to  the  first  consequences. 

And  then,  though  Hecate  might  not  wish  for  freedom, 

She  has  no  right  to  keep  it  from  her  child 

And  her  child's  children.     But  my  hope  has  failed 

As  years  pass  on  and  nothing  comes  to  aid  it. 

All  I  can  do  is  to  entreat  my  father 

To  give  her  her  own  freedom  and  her  daughter's. 


NOON.  129 


ALICE. 

And  he  will  not  consent? 


He  says  it  is 

Impossible  ;  he  could  not  free  her  here ; 
She  must  be  banished  to  the  North,  to  live 
All  unprotected  in  a  land  of  strangers ; 
She  has  no  means  of  earning  her  own  bread ; 
She  would  be  wholly  helpless;  and  her  daughter, 
Even  if  the  choice  were  given  her,  would  rather 
Remain  with  us,  and  die  where  she  was  born, 
Than  venture  out  in  the  great  world  alone. 
I  know  not  what  to  answer  to  these  reasons 
Urged  by  my  father;  but  if 


He  is  right. 
You  can  do  nothing  more  than  you  have  done.  — 

[Alice  rises  and  places  the  vases  of  flowers  in  different  parts  of  the 
room. 

Look,  is  it  well  ? 

[Changing  the  position  of  a  vase. 

No,  —  this  is  better  here. 
Now  where  is  Flora?     She  can  take  the  rest. 

[The  door  opens. 
Ah,  she  is  coming. 

[  With  surprise. 

Hecate  ! 


130  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

HECATE,  entering. 
It  is  I. 

HELEN,  to  Hecate,  who  stands  looking  at  her  with  an  anxious,  inquiring 
expression. 

What  is  it  ? 

HECATE. 

Thou  art  sad. 


Come,  then,  and  tell  me 

Some  pleasant  tales,  such  as  your  fancy  weaves  them,  — 
Half  real,  half  fantastic. 


And  thou  canst 

Still  listen  to  my  idle  tales  ?     Dear  treasure  ! 
Rose  of  my  desert !     Sunbeam  to  my  night  ! 
God  has  o'erpaid  me  in  bestowing  thee  ! 
Yes,  I  will  find  for  thee  the  sunniest  tales 
Of  brighter  lands  than  these.     No,  thou  art  sad. 
To  the  sad  heart  the  glad  tale  is  unwelcome. 
I  '11  tell  thee,  then,  of  sorrow,  —  but  of  such 
As  cannot  come  near  thee.     To  my  own  world, 
The  world  of  dreams,  I  '11  lead  thee.     Dost  thou  know — 
Thou  canst  not  know  what  paradise  is  opened, 
When  sleep  withdraws  the  veil  from  that  fair  land, 
For  him  whose  day -life  knows  nor  joy  nor  rest. 
To  the  o'erblest  are  given  ominous  dreams, 
Prefiguring  change  and  loss.     The  troubled  sleeper 


NOON.  131 

Struggles  to  wake,  and,  having  waked,  counts  over 
His  blessings,  one  by  one,  —  assures  himself 
He  still  is  rich  and  happy  and  beloved: 
Yet  scarce  he  banishes  the  haunting  shadows. 
But  on  his  eyes  whom  toil  and  sorrow  lead, 
Fainting  and  wan,  to  pitying  sleep's  protection, 
Rise  joy-fraught  visions ;  sweet,  consoling  tones 
Bear  to  his  ear  promise  of  future  rest ; 
All  that  his  life  has  lost  or  never  known 
Comes  to  enrich  it  then.     Ah,  'mid  its  bliss, 
Already  does  his  heart  forebode  the  waking  ! 
He  clings  to  sleep,  but  feels  her  kind  embrace 
Slowly  relax,  till,  half-incredulous, 
He  knows  himself  again,  and  drearily 
Takes  up  once  more  the  burden  of  his  woes. 
Thou  happy  heart,  and 
[Looking  at  Alice. 

Thou  gay  bird,  perhaps 

Your  silk-embowered  rest  has  sometimes  known 
Dark,  threatening  forms  that  would  not  be  shut  out 
By  bolts  or  bars,  that  were  not  to  be  daunted 
By  all  your  state? 

ALICE. 

Oh,  often,  Hecate,  —  often! 


Ah,  you  have  found,  perhaps,  the  hidden  source 
Of  this  day's  sadness.     A  dim,  formless  vision, 
Just  at  the  break  of  morning,  passed  before  me. 
'T  was  like  the  shadow  of  approaching  evil, 


132  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

And  rested,  as  it  seemed,  upon  my  child. 

I  thank  thee  for  reminding  me  how  slight 

The  cause  that  waked  this  tremor.     'T  will  soon   pass. 

Thou  hast  well  said,  such  dreams  assail  the  happy. 


And  wilt  thou  know  what  dreams  the  wretched  have? 
Wilt  thou  look  through  the  slumbers  of  the  slave 
And  see  the  world  that  opens  on  his  night  ?  — 

[To  Alice. 

Draw  not  back,  proud  one  !     I  '11  not  ask  of  thee 
To  stoop  the  snowy  pinions  of  thy  soul 
To  the  earth-burrowed  nest,  to  soil  their  lustre 
By  contact  with  ignoble  griefs  and  hopes. 
I  know  too  well  the  placid  scorn  that  dwells 
In  your  high  hearts,  to  ask  their  sympathy 
For  the  emotions  of  a  sooty  breast. 
But  slavery's  yoke  has  not  in  all  time  rested 
Only  on  those  predestined  to  its  thrall 
By  a  divine  decree.     That  favored  isle 
From  whose  brave  sons  Freedom  elects  its  champions, 
And  whose  rich  life,  o'erflowing,  quickened  here 
These  vigorous  young  republics,  —  that  blest  isle 
Has  seen  her  fair-cheeked  children  borne  away 
To  serve  dark  masters  under  tropic  skies. 
Of  one  of  these  you  will  not  scorn  to  hear 
How,  spent  with  toil,  on  the  unfriendly  earth 
He  sank  at  eve,  and  saw,  with  sickening  eye, 
The  blazing  sun  of  Africa  go  down. 
See  where  he  lies,  with  straight,  gold-dusted  hair, 


NOON.  133 

Eyes  that  still  wear  the  hue  of  Northern  streams, 
Cheek  that  the  foreign  skies  have  reddened,  not  bronzed! 
He  is  a  slave.     Yet  look  on  him  and  hear  !  — 

"  Sink  at  last,  cruel  splendor !  fade,  pitiless  light  ! 
Leave  the  outcast  to  sue  for  the  mercy  of  night ! 
In  the  world  the  day  shines  on  the  slave  has  no  part ; 
Its  desires,  its  affections  are  strange  to  his  heart. 
All  around,  happy  cares  that  I  know  not  I  see  ; 
Bright  hopes  open  near  me, — they  bloom  not  for  me. 
Where  I  pass,  cheerful  greetings  on  kind  faces  shine  ; 
But  no  eye  seeks  an  answering  welcome  in  mine. 
Of  life  and  of  love  all  things  else  have  their  fill ; 
But  my  heart  must  ache  on  in  its  loneliness  still. 
Every  low-bending  grass-blade,  each  tremulous  spray 
Had  its  own  humble  share  in  thy  brightness,  O  Day ! 
No  valley  so  sunken,  no  hill-peak  so  bare, 
But  awoke  to  a  hope  while  thy  smile  rested  there  ! 
In  all  this  large  bounty  no  portion  for  me, 
"Who  could  once  claim  a  child's  ?  I  am  orphaned  of  thee  ! 

"  Thou  art  here,  pale  protectress  !     Before  thy  cold  sway 
Must  die  out  the  bright  tints,  the  clear  voices  of  day  ; 
Must  recede  all  the  mocking  enchantments  of  light  ! 
Oh,  how  thou  art  welcome,  thou  stern,  silent  Night ! 
Not  thus  did  I  greet  thee  in  earlier  days, 
When  thy  dark  mantle  hid  the  bright  world  from  my  gaze  ! 
How  I  watched  then  the  sunlight's  last  lingering  gleam, 
As  it  lovingly  loitered  on  woodland  and  stream! 
And,  oh,  the  glad  waking!     Forth,  forth  on  the  lawn, 
While  the  early  birds  pour  forth  their  hymn  to  the  dawn, 


134  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

And  the  gentle  flowers,  lifting  their  heads,  one  by  one, 

Softly  whisper  each  other  their  joy  in  the  sun ! 

The  woods  put   off  their   slumber ;   the   light   morning 

breeze, 

Springing  up  from  its  trance,  is  astir  in  the  trees. 
And  see  how  the  waves  of  the  willow-watched  lake 
At  the  first  thrilling  touch  of  the  sunbeam  awake ! 
O  home  once  my  own  !     Is  the  old  gladness  there  ? 
To  thy  unestranged  children  is  morning  still  fair  ? 
Do  thy  birds  carol  ever?     Thy  airs,  roving  free, 
Still  bear  the  sweet  errands  of  meadow  and  tree  ? 
On  thy  lake,  with  the  breeze  are  the  billows  at  play, 
As  when  I  last  watched  them,  all  careless  as  they  ? 
Hear   me,   dear,   happy   waters  !     Let   one   freshening 

wave 

Steal  hither  and  bless  the  parched  lips  of  the  slave  ! 
Lend  once  more,  friendly  willows,  your  sheltering  boughs  ! 
Oh,  might  yet  your  cool  leaflets  sweep  over  my  brows ! 

"  Am  I  heard  ?  am  I  answered  ?  That  low,  tender  strain ! 
Do  the  birds  of  my  land  bid  me  welcome  again  ? 
What  sky  arches  o'er  me?     Does  this  perfumed  air 
From  the  flowers  that  once  knew  me  a  kind   greeting 

bear? 

Lo,  the  willow-trees  yonder  !     The  bright  lake  is  near ! 
The  plash  of  its  waters  comes  soft  to  mine  ear  ! 
My  home,  and  unchanged!     Yet  an  alien  I  stand 
'Mid  the  birds  and  the  trees  and  the  flowers  of  my  land  ; 
And  the  dull,  heavy  tread  of  the  slave  prints  the  sod 
Which  the  bold,  rapid  step  of  my  free  boyhood  trod. 


NOON.  135 

Ah,  my  own  cabin  home,  with  its  vine-curtained  door ! 
All  the  old  household  faces  crowd  round  me  once  more  ! 
'T  is  thy  voice,  my  own  sister !  how  welcome,  how  dear, 
Falls  the  music  of  kindness  again  on  mine  ear ! 
And  these  dear  circling  arms,  and  this  welcoming  face  ! 
I  am  havened  once  more  in  a  mother's  embrace  ! 
Oh,  but  clasp  me,  my  mother !     Thy  fond  arms  enfold 
The  same  loving  boy  whom  they  cradled  of  old ! 
Take  thou  back  thy  poor  lost  one,  all  changed  though 

he  be, 
Yet  the  same  in  his  childlike  reliance  on  thee  ! 

"  But  what  dark  creeping  shadow  draws  ever  more  near  ? 
Can  the  curse  that  has   blighted   have   power   o'er   me 

here? 

In  my  home  can  its  withering  terrors  have  part  ? 
Can  it   reach   me  when   pressed   to   my  own   mother's 

heart  ? 

Ah,  so  long  have  I  trembled,  this  unquiet  fear 
Will  cease  not  from  troubling  my  soul  even  here ! 
My  mother,  the  son  whose  proud  right  it  should  be 
To  shield  thee  from  danger  asks  safety  of  thee ! 
No  more  mayst  thou  call  me  thy  noble,  thy  brave; 
For  the  heart  of  thy  child  is  the  heart  of  a  slave ! 
Yet  do  not  thou  scorn  me !  all  free  as  thou  art, 
Deny  not  the  fallen  his  home  in  thy  heart ! 
It   grows   faint,   thy   fond   pressure  !      Yet   clasp    me  ! 

more  near ! 
Thy    face    fades   from   mine   eyes,   thy   voice   fails   on 

mine  ear ! 


136  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Oh,  yet  one  look  of  love  !  yet  one  pitying  tone ! 

Alone !  with  the  darkness  and  silence  alone  ! 

Still    the    same    dreary   void  !    still   the    same    wasting 

pain ! 
The  unloved,  the  forgotten,  is  homeless  again! 

"  Not  unloved  !  not  forgotten  !   Thou  couldst  not  forget ! 
Thy  heart,  my  own  mother,  beats  warm  for  me  yet  ! 
As  my  soul  longed  for  thee,  so  thy  love  called  on  mine  ; 
All  my  heart's  eager  yearnings  found  answer  in  thine. 
Strong  is  love;  strong  is  grief;  the  soul's  fetters  gave 

way : 

On  the  fond  mother's  bosom  the  long  orphaned  lay. 
Yes,  thou  hast  been  with  me  !     On  this  blighted  brow 
Thy  sorrowful  eyes  looked  in  love  even  now. 
To  thy  warm   throbbing   heart   this    chilled    heart   has 

been  pressed, 
Thy  dear  arms  have  clasped  me,   thy   kind   voice   has 

blessed. 
We  have  met !  we  shall  meet !     Though,  through  slow 

wasting  years, 
Mine  the   slave's    abject   toil,   mine   the   slave's   lonely 

tears, 

Thy  love,  living  and  watching,  shall  find  me  again 
Where  remaineth  a  rest  for  the  children  of  pain. 
Mother  !  no-  flower  that  earth  bears  may  lift  its  bright 

head 

Along  the  rough  pathway  my  footsteps  must  tread : 
The  more  dear  to  my  heart  shall  these  hope-blossoms  be 
I  have  borne  from  the  dreamland  in  token  of  thee ! " 


NOON.  137 

HECATE,  to  Helm,  after  a  pause. 
The  tears  are  in  thine  eyes,  thou  gentle  one ! 


Oh,  my  poor  Hecate  !  what  a  depth  of  grief 

Hast  thou  revealed  in  these  thy  fancy's  pictures ! 

Does  the  remembrance  of  a  happier  time 

Still  live  in  thee  ?     Dost  thou  still  pine  for  freedom  ? 

Oh,  when  I  look  upon  thy  heavy  sorrow, 

Knowing  its  cause,  I  have  a  sense  of  guilt ! 

I  almost  hate  myself  for  being  happy ! 

HECATE. 

Think  not  I  envy  thee  thy  radiant  life. 

Thy  happiness  is  all  is  left  of  mine. 

Nay,  look  not  sad.     Do  I  not  live  in  thee  ? 

This  wasted  heart,  famished  of  joy  and  love, 

Drinks  in  whole  draughts  of  rapture  in  thy  presence. 

HELEN. 

But  tell  me,  Hecate,  dost  thou  long  for  freedom  ? 


As  tottering  age  longs  back  its  youth;  as  snows 

That  down  the  mountains  rush  in  muddy  torrents 

Pine  to  take  back  their  frozen  purity ; 

As  lightning-blasted  oaks  regret  their  foliage. 

It  is  a  longing  which  is  not  of  hope, 

But  the  imbecile  craving  of  despair. 

No  human  hand  can  give  me  back  my  freedom  : 


138  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

That  is  a  gift  which  only  God  bestows. 
Man  may  deface  the  work  of  the  divine, 
But  not  restore  its  wholeness.     On  my  soul 
The  seal  of  ignominy  has  been  set.     Redemption 
Can  come  to  me  but  from  the  hand  of  death. 

HELEN,  after  a  pause. 

Hecate,  let  not  thy  thought  reproach  my  father. 
Thou  know'st  he  saved  thee  from  a  harder  bondage; 
And  when  I  urged  on  him  thy  mournful  story, 
He  left  no  means  untried  to  learn  the  truth. 

Even  now  —  if  there  were  any  room  to  hope 

Search  well  thy  memory.     Tell  me  all  thou  know'st. 


All  it  needs  thee  to  know  thou  hast  already: 

Only  believe  the  love  I  offer  thee 

Is  not  the  service  of  an  abject  heart ; 

And  let  no  doubt  come  near  my  mother's  name. 


Tell  me  of  her. 

HECATE. 

She  was  as  fair  and  slight 
As  my  proud  father  dark  and  manly  strong. 
All  in  her  harmonized :  her  sweet  pale  face, 
Where  only  the  eyes  were  rich  with  light  and  color ; 
Her  low-toned  voice ;  her  softly  falling  tread, 
And  the  white  gossamer  that  robed  her.     Flowers 
Were  her  sole  jewels;  yet  her  caskets  held 


NOON.  139 

The  imprisoned  fires  of  Asia's  costliest  stones. 
They  only  gleamed  to  glad  my  infant  eyes. 

HELEN. 

Thy  father  ? 

HECATE. 

Stern,  and  honoring  only  her. 
And  he  was  harsh  sometimes :  the  generous  oak 
Yields  a  rough  hold  to  the  soft-clinging  tendrils 
Of  the  fond  vine  that  leans  her  life  on  his. 
Ah,  my  sweet  mother !  when  she  heard  his  step, 
She  looked  up  with  a  gentle,  asking  smile, 
To  disarm  anger,  if  he  came  in  anger,  — 
To  welcome  kindness,  if  he  came  in  kindness. 
Thus  I  remember  her.     Alone,  she  wept 
Sometimes,  —  yes,  often ;  yet  I  think  not  more 
Than  wives  are  wont.     They  were  not  passionate  tears ; 
But  tranquil,  slowly  dropped,  as  if  her  grief 
Had  years  enough  wherein  to  spend  itself. 


She  had  griefs,  then  ? 


What  woman  has  them  not  ? 
Even  thou,  my  Helen,  turn'st  away  thine  eyes 
Before  that  question,  —  thou,  young  wife  and  mother  I 
Nay,  have  no  fear  that  I  will  probe  these  wounds. 
I  know  them  slight.     God  grant  them  never  deeper ! 


140  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

HELEN. 

God  grant  them  never  greater  than  my  strength ! 

But  not  for  happiness  was  woman  born, 

For  selfish  pleasure,  but  for  something  higher. 

I  feel  it  here.     Hecate,  thou  hast  not  erred. 

I  am  no  more  the  gay,  all-hoping  girl. 

Life  has  now  called  me  to  its  serious  cares. 

Already  I  forebode  the  sordid  griefs 

It  lays  on  woman,  —  and  the  lofty  duties. 

For  these  I  will  bear  those. 


Oh,  my  own  Helen! 

Yes,  not  for  happiness ;  for  something  higher ! 
I  feel  and  know  it  in  my  degradation  ! 
Oh,  be  thou  all  I  might  have  been !     My  soul 
Can  only  dimly  now  discern  the  noble ; 
As  faintly,  through  the  mists  of  time,  we  seize 
The  shadowy  outlines  of  a  dead  friend's  features. 
But  when,  on  some  related  face,  gleams  out 
That  look,  that  smile,  so  loved  once,  so  familiar, 
Forth  from  its  night  starts  the  long  faded  image, 
And  for  a  moment  stands  all  living  there. 
So  when  thoughts  from  thy  noble  soul  breathe  forth, 
Kindred  to  those  of  my  dead  nobleness, 
For  a  brief  instant  they  charm  back  its  phantom  !  — 
Faded,  —  gone !  —  I  am  here,  and  I  am  Hecate  ! 

[Goes. 

[Helen  remains  thoughtful.    Alice  observes  her  for  a  moment,  then 
gayly  : 


NOON.  141 


Be  what  you  will.     For  me,  I  will  be  happy. 

I  'm  not  unreasonable.     I  shall  only  ask 

A  handsome  fortune,  —  one  that  matches  mine 

Will  do;  a  husband  that  will  let  me  spend 

Just  what  I  please ;  a  very  handsome  house ; 

Statues  and  pictures  in  it ;  pretty  children,  — 

Although  they  do  say,  to  be  sure,  that  children 

Too  handsome  when  they  're  young  will  grow  up  ugly : 

But  I  must  have  them  pretty  while  they  're  little  ; 

What  they  are  afterwards  is  their  affair. 


Only  to  me,  my  Alice,  talk  thus  lightly, 

Who  read  your  heart ;  I  know  you  have  deep  feelings. 


I  do  not  know  it.     As  I  feel,  I  talk. 

There  's  one  good  thing :  I  am  no  hypocrite. 

I  say  at  once,  my  husband  must  be  rich : 

I  have  n't  the  least  taste  for  self-denial. 

To  risk  your  life  upon  some  great  occasion 

Is  very  well,  —  if  one  but  come  out  safe  ; 

But  to  go  every  day  dressed  dowdily, 

To  wear  old-fashioned  caps  and  home-made  bonnets, 

There  's  not  a  man  in  the  world  —  at  least  in  ours  — 

Worth  sacrifices  and  protracted  martyrdoms 

Like  these."    No,  Helen,  —  these  high-sounding  virtues, 

Self-sacrifice,  and  magnanimity, 

And  strength  of  soul,  and  all  the  rest  of  them, 


142  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Are  very  well  for  men.     They  have  their  part 

To  play  before  the  world.     They  take  the  worth 

Of  all  their  sacrifices  out  in  fame. 

But  we  —  what  do  we  ever  get  by  ours? 

Who  '11  ever  know  it,  if  I  scorch  my  face 

Stewing  preserves,  or  if  I  spoil  my  hands 

In  starching  muslins?     If  I  spend  my  life 

Passing  between  the  nursery  and  the  kitchen, 

A  perfect  heroine  in  my  self-devotion, 

Who  '11  ever  take  the  least  account  of  it  ? 

And  there  am  I,  after  a  few  short  years, 

An  ugly,  dowdy,  ordinary  woman, 

Without  a  thought  beyond  a  stew  or  stocking. 

Who  '11  thank  me  for  my  worn-out  youth  and  beauty, 

My  stinted  intellect  ?     Perhaps  my  husband  ? 

Oh,  not  a  bit  of  it !     He  '11  see  me  changed, 

And  wonder  how  he  ever  thought  me  pretty. 

I  've  seen  it  all.     I  know  what  I  am  saying. 

I  had  an  aunt  who  married  in  the  North 

HELEN. 

Your  mother's  sister? 

ALICE. 

Yes,  —  my  Aunt  Sophia. 
I  made  a  visit  to  her  once,  and  then 
I  learned  what  a  love-match  is.     My  poor  aunt! 
They  say  that  she  was  lovely  in  her  youth, 
And  never  was  attachment  so  romantic 
As  that  between  her  and  her  husband,  —  lover, 
I  mean,  before  he  had  become  her  husband. 


NOON.  143 

When  I  first  saw  her,  she  was  thin  and  pale, 

"With  anxious  eyes  shaded  by  heavy  lids : 

He  was  still  handsome  rather,  though  too  stout. 

Could  I  describe  to  you  that  woman's  life ! 

She  rose  at  six  o'clock,  —  it  was  in  winter : 

I  don't  know  what  time  she  got  up  in  summer,  — 

At  dawn,  no  doubt.     No  sooner  up  than  busy. 

First,  all  the  pretty  things  about  the  parlor 

Were  to  be  dusted  by  her  careful  hand : 

Servants  were  not  abundant,  —  and  besides, 

A  breakage  was  a  serious  affair. 

Then  to  the  work-basket  before  't  was  light. 

Shirts  were  to  mend,  —  when  not  to  make,  —  and  stockings. 

One  thing  got  through,  there  stood  another  ready. 

I  said  one  day,  —  "  And  when  shall  you  be  done  ?  "  — 

"  Done  ?  "  —  and  she  turned  on  me  a  wondering  look,  — 

"  Done  what  ?  this  apron  ?  " — "  Done  with  all  your  work. " — 

"  Never,"  she  said,  —  and  that  so  placidly  ! 

Then  she  must  hear  the  younger  children's  lessons, 

Before  they  went  to  school,  to  have  them  perfect. 

She  'd  heard  the  Latin  Grammar  through  so  often, 

Beginning  with  the  oldest  boys,  and  coming 

Down  to  the  youngest,  — just  in  training  then,  — 

That  she  could  listen  to  the  recitation 

And  never  leave  her  mending :  coarse  print,  fine  print, 

She  knew  it  all  as  well  as  a  professor. 

HELEN. 

Well,  then,  at  least,  in  giving,  she  gained  instruction. 


144  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

ALICE. 

If  she  could  but  have  put  it  to  some  use ! 

But  no,  she  never  got  beyond  the  grammar. 

When  they  were  old  enough  to  do  without  her, 

They  went  their  way,  and  she  began  again 

The  same  old  story  with  the  younger  ones. — 

"Well,  then  came  breakfast.     Just  before  it  came, 

The  children  were  admonished  to  be  quiet, 

Because  papa  was  coming.     Papa  came,  — 

Despatched  his  breakfast,  —  read  his  newspaper,  — 

Departed  for  his  office.     After  breakfast, 

She  washed  the  breakfast-things  and  set  them  up, — 

And  then  to  work  again.     I  tried  to  read 

Aloud  to  her,  thinking  it  quite  humane  : 

But  her  poor  head  was  so  intent  on  planning 

How  to  make  Charley's  jackets  do  for  Tommy, 

Or  how  to  cut  two  mantles  for  the  girls 

Out  of  her  last-year's  cloak,  or  perhaps  only 

How  to  have  what  remained  from  yesterday 

Made  serviceable  for  another  dinner, 

That,  when  I  've  read  some  most  pathetic  passage, 

And  my  eyes  looked  for  sympathy  in  hers, 

I  found  that  cold,  vague,  introverted  look 

Which  says  the  mind,  at  work  within  itself, 

Is  not  at  home  to  foreign  visitors. 

At  times,  indeed,  in  some  auspicious  moment, 

I  caught  her  ear,  and,  through  her  ear,  her  heart. 

Once  taken  captive,  it  made  no  resistance, 

But  suffered  me  to  lead  it  where  I  would. 

Then  fell  the  hateful  work ;  the  needle  stopped ; 


NOON.  145 

The  humid  eye,  melting  by  turns  and  kindling, 

Gave  back  the  varying  passion  of  the  page. 

And  I  read  on  with  tremulous  delight, 

Dreading  the  moment  that  should  break  the  spell, 

Take  from  me  my  congenial  companion, 

And  leave  instead  the  toiling,  careful  housewife. 

Too  soon  it  came  !     At  once  the  conscious  flush 

Springs  to  her  cheek,  and  quick  the  guilty  hands, 

Convicted  of  a  moment's  idleness, 

Catch  self-reproachful  at  the  slighted  work, 

While  the  perturbed  and  hurried  eyes  send  round 

Sharp  glances  to  detect  what  other  duties 

That  season  of  oblivion  has  betrayed. 

HELEN. 

This  life  seems  sad  and  wearisome  indeed; 
Yet  without  doubt  it  had  its  compensations. 

ALICE. 

I  don't  know  what  they  were.     I  saw  her  life, 
How  it  wore  by.     One  day  was  like  another. 
You  think,  perhaps,  she  found  them  in  her  children  ? 
In  the  elder  possibly ;  they  were  from  home. 
The  younger  were  a  set  of  little  Pickles. 
When  they  came  home  from  school,  there  was  a  time 
To  get  their  hands  and  faces  washed  for  dinner  ! 
And  then  their  lessons  were  to  hear  once  more  ! 
My  uncle  came  again  at  three  o'clock, 
But  left  his  soul  behind  him  at  his  office, 
Musing  a  law-case.     His  material  form, 
10 


146  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Having  reinforced  itself,  rejoined  the  spirit.  — 

The  afternoon  was  very  like  the  morning: 

A  scene  of  busy  cutting,  making,  mending, 

Varied  by  short  excursions  to  the  kitchen. 

But  then  the  evening  was  her  holiday, 

Perhaps  you  think  ?     A  heavy  holiday  ! 

About  as  gay  as  a  New  England  Sunday  ! 

The  children  sat  apart  to  con  their  lessons, 

Each  with  his  little  lamp  and  little  table. 

At  intervals  one  or  the  other  came 

Across  the  room,  on  tiptoe,  to  obtain 

A  whispered  explanation  from  his  mother. 

Except  this,  and  the  ticking  of  the  clock, 

The  crackling  of  the  fire,  the  gentle  rustling 

Of  my  aunt's  dress,  as  flew  her  nimble  needle, 

And  now  and  then  a  deep  sonorous  hem 

From  my  portly  uncle,  not  a  sound  disturbed 

The  more  than  churchlike  stillness  ;  for  the  children, 

Untamed  as  colts  when  only  with  their  mother, 

Were  grave  as  owlets  when  papa  was  there. 

But  if,  in  some  forgetful  moment,  words 

Above  the  breath,  or  an  ill-smothered  laugh, 

Broke  out  from  them,  the  conscience-stricken  mother 

Lifted  her  eyes  to  meet  her  husband's  look 

And  intercept  the  blame  it  carried  in  it. 

Those  evenings  seemed  to  me  without  an  end. 

I  hailed  the  hour  of  general  dispersion 

That  brought  me  freedom,  —  me,  not  her :  she  sat 

Till  one  o'clock  over  her  mending-basket. 


NOON.  147 


HELEN. 

Why  did  you,  go  to  stay  so  long  a  time  ? 


To  tell  the  truth,  it  was  a  punishment. 

You  know  I  was  so  thoroughly  spoiled  !     My  mother 

Thought  it  would  do  me  good  to  pass  six  months 

Under  this  roof  of  struggle  and  privation. 

It  did  me  good.     I  learned  a  lesson  there 

That  I  shall  profit  by. 


Was  she  depressed 
And  sad  ? 

ALICE. 

My  aunt?     She  never  seemed  to  know 
She  was  n't  the  happiest  woman  in  the  world ! 
I  asked  myself,  was  it  stupidity  ? 
Or  was  it  something  quite  beyond  my  ken  ? 

HELEN. 

This  life  of  self-devotion  had  rewards 

That  human  eye  saw  not.     Believe  it,  Alice. 


What  was  unseen  I  cannot  estimate. 

The  visible  rewards  were  somewhat  scanty. 

The  children  took  it  as  a  thing  of  course 

That  she  should  toil  and  moil  and  watch  for  them. 

I  do  believe  her  sons  had  loved  her  better, 


148  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

If  they  had  seen  her  pretty  and  well-dressed,       ) 

Than  as  it  was,  with  all  her  sacrifices. 

I  told  her  so  one  day,  in  my  blunt  way. 

She  answered  gently,  —  "  Yes,  perhaps  they  might   j 

Have  loved  me  more :  I  should  deserve  it  less." 

She  did  not  miss  their  thanks.     To  take  her  kindness 

Was  to  do  her  one.  —  I  remember  once 

I  saw  her  thoughts  turned  back  upon  herself: 

But  for  a  moment,  though.     It  was  one  Sunday: 

We  had  all  been  to  church:  the  preacher's  text  was, 

"  Her  children  arise  up  and  call  her  blessed." 


Oh,  Alice,  I  can  never  hear  that  verse 
But  my  heart  swells !     You  talk  of  fame,  of  glory ! 
What  glory  ever  filled  the  soul  with  rapture 
Like  that  which  must  o'erflow  the  mother's  being 
Whose  children  call  her  blessed? 


Well,  my  uncle 

At  dinner-time  said  to  the  youngest  boy, 
"  What  did  you  hear  at  church  ?  "  —  "  We  heard  a  sermon 
About  a  mother  who  was  very  good."  — 
"  Like  yours,"  my  uncle  said.     These  simple  words 
Showed  him  less  unobservant  than  he  seemed. 
I  never  knew  before  he  felt  her  value. 
It  seemed  to  be  a  new  thing  to  her,  too : 
A  flush  of  glad  surprise  suffused  her  cheek ; 
Tears,  half  of  pleasure,  half  of  penitence, 


NOON.  149 

Pressed  to  her  eyes.     It  seemed  she  asked  herself, 
Had  she  deserved  this  praise  ?  and  gleams  of  joy 
And  shades  of  sadness,  alternating,  flitted 
Over  her  face,  to  which  its  youth  came  back 
For  a  brief  moment,  and  then  fled  again, 
Leaving  it  only  gentler  still  and  humbler. 
Her  husband,  though,  saw  nothing  of  all  this: 
He  ate  his  dinner  in  the  utmost  calm. 


You  must  have  loved  your  aunt:  you  would  not  else 
Have  learned  to  read  her  feelings  in  her  face ; 
You  would  not  else  have  been  so  jealous  for  her, 
And  thought  she  was  not  valued  at  her  worth. 

ALICE. 

Oh,  yes,  I  loved  her,  —  love  her  memory. 

I  thought  her  life  preposterous,  but  I  loved  her. — 

I  asked  her  once,  how  could  a  mind  like  hers 

Content  itself  amid  such  vulgar  cares, 

Trouble  itself  about  such  petty  savings  ? 

I  was  a  child,  and  could  ask  anything. 

She  said:  "We  have  to  educate  our  children. 

I  have  myself  no  means  of  earning  money  : 

I  can  but  save  it.     If  I  were  more  lavish, 

If  I  allowed  myself  a  life  of  ease, 

Either  our  boys  must  want  advantages 

I  would  not  have  them  want,  or  else  their  father 

Must  doubly  toil,  and  wear  out  soul  and  strength. 

This  thought  supports  me:  every  cent  I  save 


150  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Is  so  much  care  and  labor  spared  to  him. 
Then,  if  my  spirit  flags,  I  rouse  it  up 
With  thinking  on  the  future  of  my  sons. 
I  see  them  with  their  father's  eloquence 

And  all  his  gifts,  joined  to  my " "  Self-devotion," 

I  added,  as  she  sought  some  humbler  word. 
"My  industry,  to  my  one  humble  merit, 
My  legacy  to  them :  all  other  talents 
They  will  inherit  from  the  father's  side." 
She  never  lost  faith  in  her  husband's  genius. 
Success  and  fame  did  come  to  him  at  last  : 
But  she  was  in  her  grave,  and  never  knew  it. 

HELEN. 

Her  hopes  for  him  were  answered.     And  her  children, 

Have  they  not  well  repaid  her  cares  and  efforts? 

Her  eldest  son  already  has  a  name 

Honored  by  all  whose  suffrage  is  an  honor  ; 

The  second  son,  young  as  he  is,  has  gained 

A  rank  among  our  greatest  poets.     Few 

So  happy  as  this  humbly  toiling  woman  ! 

She  died,  —  but  died  with  all  her  ends  accomplished. 

ALICE. 

No,  not  accomplished ;  or  she  did  not  know  it. 

HELEN. 

She  had  foreknown  it :  the  religious  heart 
Confides  more  in  the  promises  of  faith 
Than  in  the  evidence  of  mortal  senses. 


NOON.  151 

ALICE. 

Oh,  could  she  but  have  lived  a  little  longer ! 
The  grave  had  hardly  closed  on  her,  when  all 
Turned  out  exactly  to  her  wish :  her  husband 
Prosperous  at  last ;  her  children  something  more. 

HELEN. 

Yes,  she  said  well:  they  have  their  father's  powers 

And  hers  united.     Not  a  generous  work, 

Not  a  just  cause,  but  has  their  advocacy, 

And  given  with  that  heartfelt  eloquence 

That  finds  the  answering  chords  in  other  hearts. 

These  noble  brothers  !  what  a  part  is  theirs ! 

One  from  the  sacred  desk  gives  forth  with  power 

The  teachings  of  eternal  truth ;  the  other, 

Not  less  a  preacher  of  the  inspired  word 

That  imposition  of  no  human  hands 

Devolved  this  office  on  him,  gives  to  earth 

The  sacred  oracles  in  strains  as  lofty 

And  spirit-stirring  as  the  ancient  prophets  : 

Wrong  shrinks  before  his  voice,  and  trampled  right 

Makes  good  its  claims,  at  least  in  human  hearts.  — 

He  is  a  benefactor  of  the  earth 

Who  makes  two  grass-blades  grow  where  grew  but  one  : 

How  much  more  he  who  generous  emotions 

Calls  forth  in  torpid  minds !  who  makes  the  waste 

Of  rude,  uncultured  hearts  to  blossom  out 

In  genial  virtues !  —  How  I  thank  you,  Alice, 

For  sketching  me  the  life  of  this  dear  woman ! 

Well,  I  believe  no  sacrifice  is  lost, 


152  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

But  each  just  aim,  if  steadfastly  pursued, 

Is  reached  at  last,  —  that  even  the  silent  efforts 

Of  earnest  hearts  have  value  before  God, 

And  work  the  good  they  strive  for.     Yet  we  all 

Have  need  sometimes  to  fortify  our  faith. 

The  example  of  such  efforts  and  such  triumphs 

Cheers  and  inspires. 


I  wonder  at  you,  Helen  ! 

You,  with  your  gifts,  your  splendid  powers,  your  beauty, 
You  take  example,  you  draw  strength  from  one 
Good,  gentle,  patient,  all  ways  praiseworthy, 
But  no  more  fit  to  be  compared  to  you 
Than  a  poor  rushlight  to  the  evening  star ! 


Alice !     God  has  indeed  heaped  blessings  on  me, 
And  made  my  trials  —  can  I  call  them  trials  ?  — 
So  light  they  hardly  leave  me  room  for  merit. 
When  I  compare  my  life  with  the  existence 
Of  some  poor  toiling  woman,  the  rewards 
My  slightest  effort  finds  with  the  sparse  gains 
That  pay  her  ceaseless  labors,  —  smiles  and  thanks 
And  amplest  recognition  compensating 
The  smallest  sacrifice  I  make  for  others, 
While  her  sad  life's  monotonous  toils  and  pains 
Nor  sympathy  nor  gratitude  makes  sweet,  — 
When  I  compare  myself  with  such  a  woman, 
I  feel,  with  a  profound  humility, 
How  much  her  life  is  nobler,  higher  than  mine. 


NOON.  153 

But,  if  there  be  a  woman  who  deserves 

More  veneration  than  these  humble  martyrs, 

Is  it  not  she  who,  bred  in  luxury 

Mental  and  physical,  and  versed  in  all 

That  makes  life  beautiful  and  rich  and  graceful, 

Can  yet  accept  with  a  courageous  patience 

The  cares,  devoid  of  dignity  and  charm, 

Of  a  restricted,  sordid,  household  life,  — 

Who,  with  the  tastes  and  wants  that  culture  gives, 

Condemns  herself  to  mental  poverty 

That  others  may  be  rich  ?     Believe  me,  sister, 

These  silent  sacrifices  are  of  those 

That  before  God  have  worth.     These  are  the  women 

Who,  with  their  humbler  sisters  of  the  poor, 

Keep,  in  our  time,  uninjured  the  tradition, 

The  ideal  of  womanhood. 


I  grudge  them  not  their  honors  ! 
Offer  me  power  or  glory  worth  the  having, 
I  'd  make,  perhaps,  the  needed  sacrifices 
To  win  it.     But  I  cannot  hope  for  either. 
Our  age,  our  country  only  grant  to  women 
Distinction  in  a  petty  sphere,  through  wealth 
Displayed  in  house  and  dress  and  equipage. 
And  wherefore  kick  against  the  pricks  ?     I  aim 
Only  at  what  I  see  within  my  reach. 

HELEN. 

The  things  which  lie  within  our  reach  are  often 
More  worth  than  the  far-sought.     And  are  you  sure 


154  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

There  are  no  higher  duties  left  for  women 
Than  to  display  on  dress  and  furniture 
The  wealth  that  others'  industry  provides  ? 

ALICE. 

Oh,  educate  their  children,  scold  their  servants, 
Smile  when  a  husband  sulks  ;  all  said  in  one : 
Domestic  virtue !     I  've  no  taste  for  it. 
Or  let  me  be  a  heroine,  or  be  nothing! 


The  heroines  of  the  past,  who  have  bequeathed  us 
What  we  possess  of  ease  and  dignity, 
Suffered  and  toiled  unknown  and  unregarded. 
Their  noble  patience,  their  sublime  forbearance 
Guarded  the  sacred  ties  of  home  and  kindred 
From  violent  rupture,  until  their  protection 
Became  the  common  care  of  cultured  man, 
And,  sanctified  by  habit,  passed  to  law. 
This  work  is  done.     But  shall  we  rest  supine  ? 
The  task  of  woman  will  not  be  accomplished, 
Until,  throughout  the  world,  the  law  of  love 
Supplant  the  law  of  force,  —  until  the  bonds 
That  join  a  loving  family  together, 
Making  their  joys,  griefs,  aspirations  one, 
Hold  all  the  children  of  the  common  Father. 


You  do  not  count,  I  fear,  among  your  great 

The  "  illustrious  women,"  those  who  "  raised  themselves 


NOON.  155 

Above  their  sex,"  as  the  historians  tell  us  : 
That  is  to  say,  did  almost  as  much  mischief 
As  if  they  had  been  men.     These  war-makers 
Are  not  your  heroines,  I  suppose. 

HELEN. 

As  little 

As,  in  our  own  time,  are  those  errant  women 
Who  think  to  imitate  the  faults  of  men 
Is  to  be  sharers  in  their  privileges. 
Not  these ;  but  those  who  have  the  force  to  live 
Faithful  to  duty,  duty  absolute : 
Not  asking  whether  men  perform  their  part, 
But  working  out  their  own  as  unto  God. 
What  the  strong  women  of  the  elder  time 
Endured  and  did,  unknowing  their  own  work, — 
What  they  began  without  support  and  singly, 
Following  the  law  of  God  within  their  hearts, 
We  must  fulfil  with  higher  consciousness, 
With  deeper  insight,  and  with  greater  concert. 
The  incentives  that  men  need  to  urge  them  on 
Are  wanting,  it  is  true,  to  woman  :  fame, 
Power,  wide-spread  influence,  even  the  honest  pleasure 
Found  in  free  use  of  noble  faculties, 
These  are  denied  to  her.     Restrained  and  cramped 
In  all  her  outward  acts,  she  cannot  know 
The  joys  of  self-possession,  —  man's  great  bliss  ; 
She  only  claims  those  of  renunciation. 

ALICE. 

Claims?     I  withdraw  my  claim,  for  one  ! 


156  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

HELEN. 

Yes,  claims 

The  glorious  privilege  of  God's  commissioned : 
The  right  to  live  and  work  for  others'  good, 
Requiring  no  return.     This  right  the  humblest 
May  claim  ;  nor  let  the  most  endowed  renounce  it. 
If  God  bestows  high  gifts  upon  a  woman, 
'T  is  for  His  service,  and  His  service  only. 
Let  her  not  lift  her  head  to  meet  the  laurels 
Men  offer  to  their  great,  but,  humbly  stooping, 
Incline  it  to  the  crown  of  martyrdom. 
Thus  did  the  faithful  of  the  early  time, 
Unseen,  unpraised,  and  only  dimly  knowing 
Their  sorrow  was  to  work  out  others'  good.  — 
Alice,  what  wastes  of  woe  the  mind  runs  over, 
As  through  man's  history  it  traces  back 
The  destiny  of  woman  !     Think  what  grief 
Wrung  those  strong  hearts  that,  generous  to  the  selfish, 
To  the  false  constant,  to  the  brutal  kind, 
Broke  not,  revenged  not !     For  one  faithless  Helen, 
One  Clytemnestra  who  paid  crime  with  crime, 
And  earned  a  name  with  men,  how  many  firm, 
Heroic  hearts  in  stillness  bore,  returning 
Kindness  for  wrong,  and  hardly  knew  it  wrong, 
So  raised  above  the  consciousness  of  self 
And  self's  deserts  were  they  !     There  are  who  call 
These  resolute,  devoted  women  slaves ! 


And  were  they  not?     I  should  have  called  them  so. 


NOON.  157 

HELEN. 

The  service  they  gave  was  not  slavish  service. 

We  know  what  that  is.     Self-control,  forbearance, 

Persistence,  silent  exercise  of  duty, 

Are  these  the  attributes  of  servitude  ? 

No,  —  of  free-will  those  generous  hearts  and  strong 

Gave  without  stint  their  wealth  and  energy. 

Not  servants  they,  but  liberal  benefactors  ! 

Then  first  the  woman  sinks  to  the  dependant, 

When,  giving  up  her  right  to  self-devotion, 

She  seeks  her  ease,  and  strives  in  trifling  pleasures 

To  dissipate  the  energies  that  fret 

And  waste  her  soul,  supine  in  idleness ; 

Then,  when,  instead  of  giving,  she  asks ;  then,  when 

She  puts  her  weakness  forward  as  a  pretext 

For  duties  unfulfilled,  by  flattery  seeking, 

And  feigned  abasement,  to  usurp  a  power 

For  selfish  ends,  which,  wielded  for  the  highest, 

She  might  possess  of  right ;  then,  when,  a  traitor 

To  man,  and  to  the  Heaven-planted  instinct 

That  makes  him  see  in  her  a  second  conscience, 

She  gives  him  the  reflection  of  his  thought, 

And  not  the  word  God  printed  on  her  soul. 

The  poor  and  lowly  hold  their  office  still  : 

They  toil  and  bear  as  ever.     But  the  others, 

Who,  for  a  higher  work,  are  left  exempt 

From  manual  drudgery,  how  do  they  fulfil 

The  task  appointed  them  ?     A  fearful  question, 

Which  wTe  shall  all  one  day  be  called  to  answer! 


158  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

ALICE. 

If  all  can  answer  with  as  clear  a  conscience 
As  you  can,  well  for  them ! 


Oh,  Alice,  no ! 

To  be  beloved  is  sweet.     I  would  not  lose 
Your  dear  affection.     But  what  merit  have  I 
Even  in  the  qualities  you  love  in  me? 
They  are  a  gift  accorded  like  my  wealth. 
What  have  I  done,  what  have  I  borne,  to  earn 
Or  what  I  have  or  what  I  am?     It  must  be, 
Alice,  it  must  be  God  has  duties  for  me : 
I  even  think  I  can  discern  the  path 
He  has  ordained  for  me  ;  now  only  dimly ; 
But  light  will  come.     My  life  is  in  its  morning. 
I  but  begin  to  understand  myself 
And  judge  the  world  about  me.     I  have  passed 
Childhood  and  youth  in  happy  dreams.     The  real 
Calls  on  me  now ;  I  hear  its  serious  voice. 
This  much  is  clear:  in  placid  idleness 
I  cannot  rest,  while  round  about  me  lies 
A  world  of  want  and  ignorance  and  pain  ; 
My  soul  demands  to  labor  in  God's  vineyard. 


Have  you  not  done  so  ?    Have  you  not  shed  blessings 
Where'er  your  look  has  fallen  ?     If  your  power 
Were  equal  to  your  will,  you  would  have  made 
An  earthly  paradise  of  your  plantation. 


NOON.  159 

You  have  done  all  but  the  impossible. 
Content  yourself,  for  you  have  done  enough. 

HELEN. 

Enough  to  show  me  that  I  have  done  nothing  : 
At  best  a  tending  of  the  sickly  branches, 
While  safe  below  a  worm  corrodes  the  root. 
God  takes  not  from  us  superficial  service: 
We  must  give  all,  or  we  have  given  nothing. 


Oh,  to  what  heights  of  virtue  would  you  soar  ? 
I  half  forebode.     But  do  you  hope  to  drag 
My  brother  Herbert  with  you  to  the  summit  ? 

HELEN. 

His  heart,  his  mind,  have  slept,  perhaps,  till  now,  — 
Like  mine. 

ALICE,  aside. 

Have  slept,  —  but  not  like  yours ! 


To  him 

Will  come  the  hour  of  waking,  as  to  me. 
He,  too,  will  feel  the  need  to  try  his  powers. 
His  heart  is  generous,  his  spirit  high. 
Have  you  forgotten  with  what  zeal,  what  courage, 
He  took  the  part  of  that  poor,  helpless  man, 
Unjustly  held  a  slave? 


160  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

ALICE. 

No  ;  I  remember.  — 
[Aside. 

And  so  much  penetration  as  she  has, 
Yet  does  not  see  what  I  could  see  so  plainly  ! 
One  half  his  zeal  was  nothing  but  resentment 
Against  a  man  who  'd  given  him  offence  ; 
The  other  and  the  best  half  was  desire 
To  please  herself ;  —  and  it  did  more  to  win  her 
Than  his  vows  or  her  father's  arguments. 


o 


HELEX,  smiling. 

He  even  overcame  the  indolence 
That  my  reproaches  had  assailed  in  vain. 
How  hard  he  worked  !  Oh,  he  has  energy  ! 
He  only  wants  an  object  and  an  impulse. 

ALICE,  aside. 

You  will  suggest  the  first  and  give  the  last. 
Dear  simpleton,  how  easily  I  read  you  ! 
But  you  are  now  his  wife,  —  not  yet  to  win. 
So  wise  she  is,  so  little  worldly-wise ! 


These  will  not  fail.     Alice,  what  happiness, 
If  I  could  labor  hand  in  hand  with  Herbert 
For  a  great  cause  ! 

ALICE. 

If! 


NOON.  161 

HELEN. 

I  am  not  impatient. 
I  shall  not  try  to  carry  him  by  storm. 
I  am  content  to  work  obscurely,  slowly, 
Alone,  if  so  it  must  be,  —  but  beginning 
What  other  hands,  more  strong,  more  free,  will  finish. 
What  patience  can,  and  what  a  resolute  will, 
Tempered  by  meekness  and  by  gentleness, 
That  will  I  offer  to  the  cause  of  right. 
But,  oh,  with  him  !  if  I  might  work  with  him ! 
Then  no  conflicting  duties  in  my  heart 
Would  waste  my  strength,  no  hampering  doubts  restrain ; 
My  whole  self  I  could  render.     Oh,  how  welcome 
Toil,  reproach,  danger,  would  he  let  me  dare  them, 
And  dare  them  with  me ! 

ALICE. 

Herbert ! 

HELEN. 

Is  not  truth, 

When  spoken  by  a  loved  and  loving  voice, 
Powerful  ?     And  has  not  manly  courage  often 
Received  its  impulse,  manly  intellect 
Its  inspiration,  from  a  woman's  heart  ? 


Enjoy  your  dreams:  and  yet  they  are  but  dreams, 
Like  those  your  childhood  and  your  early  youth 
Pleased  themselves  with.    These,  in  their  turn,  will  yield 
11 


162  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

With  passing  years  to  a  new  set  of  visions. 
Oh,  woman's  dearest,  truest  friend  is  Fancy  ! 
How  could  we  bear  our  dreary  lot  without  her? 
She  makes  the  whole  world  free  to  our  cramped  childhood 
She  gives  our  youth  noble,  chivalric  lovers ; 
She  fills  our  tame,  eventless  lives  with  action, 
When,  in  our  strength,  the  impulse  to  accomplish 
Spurs  us,  as  men.     Leave  them  realities,  — 
Their  real  toil,  too  real  disappointments  ! 
Give  us  the  unreal  that  compensates  all  ! 


Fancy  !     I,  too,  have  known  that  sweet  misleader,  — 

Have  wandered  through  her  flowery  paths,  have  breathed 

The  lulling  airs  of  her  enchanted  realm. 

I,  too,  have  soothed  the  longing  of  my  soul 

With  imaged  deeds,  inane  activity. 

My  soul  awakes,  and  dreams  content  no  more. 


Leave  me  my  portion  in  the  realm  of  visions !  — 

O  shadowy  land,  more  true  for  us  thy  shadows, 

More  satisfying,  than  the  world  of  substance  ! 

Oh,  never  shut  us  from  thy  refuge  !     There 

Is  our  true  home,  our  lost  inheritance. 

In  thee  as  yet  the  woman  is  unfallen : 

She  stands  erect  and  lifts  her  gaze  to  heaven,  — 

To  a  just  heaven,  that  rewards  her  faith, 

Nor  leaves  to  generous  hopes  and  kindly  deeds 

The  blight  of  failure  and  ingratitude. 


NOON.  163 

No  discord  in  thy  regions,  no  frustration  ! 
The  fairy  blossoms  yield  their  fairy  fruit, 
The  imaged  purpose  finds  ideal  fulfilment  ; 
All  tends  in  order  to  its  destined  end. 
Why  art  thou  not  the  true  world?     Harmony 
And  sequence,  are  not  these  the  law?     Disorder, 
Strife,  and  confusion,  are  not  these  negation? 
It  is  so  dear  to  live  in  truth  and  freedom ! 
Why  must  thy  pure  and  heaven-lighted  realm 
Alternate  for  us  with  a  baser  world? 

HELEN,  taking  her  hand  tenderly. 
Alice,  these  glimpses  of  a  higher  life, 
These  transient  flights  to  heaven,  are  granted  us, 
Not  that  we  should  despise  our  earthly  homes, 
And  turn,  reluctant,  from  our  task-work  here, 
But  that  with  clearer  faith  and  firmer  courage 
We  should  confront  our  duty,  —  bravely  striving, 
Each  in  the  measure  of  his  strength,  to  make 
The  real  world  conform  to  the  ideal. 


You  feel  within  yourself  the  force  to  strive 

Even  for  the  unattainable.     I  do  not. 

I  will  still  dream  myself  to  bliss,  to  power,  — 

Attaining  in  one  rapid  flight  the  goal 

Others  may  toil  for  through  the  dusty  road 

And  never  come  the  nearer.     And  you,  Helen, 

Will  find  this  is  but  a  more  lively  dream. 

1  have  had  some  myself  that  seemed  like  earnest, 

But  they  have  faded  like  the  rest. 


164  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

HELEN. 

No  dream, 

Nor  altogether  joyful  and  contenting, 
Like  Fancy's  magic  work.     Severe  it  stands, — 
An  earnest  purpose,  but  a  human  purpose, 
Subject  to  cross,  delay,  and  disappointment. 


Be  what  you  will,  do  what  you  will,  my  Helen, 
I  only  ask  to  love  you,  not  to  follow. 
Godspeed  upon  the  path  I  shall  not  tread !  — 
I  go.     I  see  you  need  repose.     Besides, 
Your  mother  will  be  jealous,  if  I  stay 
Longer  with  you.     Oh,  yes  ! 
[Archly. 

I  know,  I  know ! 

[Goes. 
HELEN,  alone. 

She,  his  adopted  sister,  doubts  of  him ! 
Turn  not  that  way,  my  thoughts  !     No,  — •  he  is  good 
And  true  and  generous.     He  is  very  young, 
And  so  am  I.     "We  will  grow  up  together  : 
With  every  day  shall  see  our  duties  clearer ; 
With  every  day  gain  greater  strength  for  them.  — • 
Why  is  it,  when  I  look  toward  our  future, 
That  over  hopes  that  should  be  brightest,  dearest, 
The  shadow  of  so  deep  a  sadness  falls  ? 
Without  my  choice,  unsubject  to  my  will, 
Through  my  heart  wander  mournful  melodies, 
Like  the  sad  sighing  of  a  wind-swept  lyre. 


NOON.  165 

Is  it  foreboding?  false  the  prophecy 

That  this  same  heart  has  made  me  until  now  ? 

Am  I  of  those  whose  offered  sacrifice 

Is  not  accepted?     Shall  I  live  in  vain? 

Not  mine  the  resolute  effort,  final  triumph, 

But  that  most  sorrowful  of  mortal  dooms, 

Abortive  toil,  and  pain  without  result  ? 

Not  this  !  not  this  !     Oh,  any  fate  but  this !  — 

[After  a  few  moments,  fervently. 
Whether  God  call  on  me  to  do  or  bear, 
I  only  pray  my  hour  may  find  me  ready  ! 


TRAGEDY    OF    ERRORS. 


AFTERNOON. 


TKAGEDY    OF    ERRORS. 


AFTERNOON. 

SCENE  I. 

A  part  of  the  grounds  from  which  the  house  is  visible  through  the 
trees ;  on  the  other  side,  a  cluster  of  negro  huts.  Enter  WOODFORD, 
a  pale,  care-warn  man,  with  thin,  gray  hair. 


WOODFORD. 

This  is  the  place;  but  I  see  no  one  yet. 

That  is  the  mansion  over  there.     Rich  people. 

There  's  the  slaves'  quarter.     Not  a  soul  about,  — 

Not  even  a  child.     It  is  n't  Sunday,  is  it  ? 

No,  the  coach  comes  on  Thursday.     It  is  Friday. 

'T  was  on  a  Friday Never  mind,  —  leave  that ! 

I  'm  going  to  do  the  best  I  can.  —  If  only 

I  could  find  somebody  to  speak  a  word  to  !  — 

What  shall  I  ask?     Why,  first  for  some  refreshment. 

And,  as  I  take  it,  I  '11  find  how  the  land  lies. 

I  can  take  time  enough.     I  'm  not  known  here.  — 

'T  is  Friday,  is  it  ?     Have  n't  I  always  said 

I  'd  not  begin  another  job  on  Friday  ?  — 

Well,  have  the  other  days  been  luckier  ? 


170  TEAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

And  then,  that  was  n't  luck.     'T  was  Satan's  tempting 

Brought  that  about.  —  Perhaps  he  's  at  it  now  ! 

He  wants  his  pay,  and  I  'm  brought  here  to  give  it ! 

Shall  I  back  out  ?     No,  fool !     It  is  the  fever 

Still  flickering  round  my  brain.     All  these  queer  fancies 

Are  come  of  that.  —  But  this  fixed  resolution 

To  undo  what  I  've  done,  that 's  not  the  fever. 

No,  that  is  something  else.     Wherever  't  came  from, 

It 's  strong  and  steady,  —  does  not  come  and  go 

Like  sick-bed  whims,  but  pricks  and  urges  always.  — 

But  they  were  awful,  though,  those  fever  phantoms ! 

God,  let  them  not  come  back !     I  '11  keep  them  off, 

If  a  good  life  can  do  it.     The  first  step 

In  my  new  path  I  'm  taking  now.  —  How  many 

Years  is  it  now  since  then  ?     Why,  almost  thirty  ! 

Thirty  !     'T  is  late  !     The  girl  was  ten  years  old : 

Hard  upon  forty  now.     The  babe  a  man. 

The  mother  —  if  I  find  her  —  over  sixty. 

Well,  how  these  thirty  years  have  slid  away ! 

Hard,  bitter  years,  too,  most  of  them,  in  passing, — 

But  to  look  back  upon,  a  misty  dream  ! 

And  all  the  time  I  've  partly  known  't  would  come 

To  this  at  last:  but  never  found  the  day 

Until  this  day.     And  now  it  seems  as  if 

My  penitence  had  followed  straight  my  sin, 

And  that,  the  deed  scarce  done,  I  can  undo  it. 

Not  so  !  not  so !     The  thirty  years  are  there  !  — 

What  's  that  ? 

[A  harsh  laugh  is  heard.     Woodford  turns  and  sees  DORCAS,  who 
comes  out  from  behind  a  clump  of  trees. 


AFTERNOON.  171 

DORCAS. 

Well  done  !  and  so  you  're  here  at  last ! 

WOODFORD. 

You  know  me,  then  ? 

DORCAS. 

Know  you  ?     Do  you  know  me  ? 

WOODFORD. 

No.  —  Should  I  know  you  ?  —  Surely  't  is  not 


Surely ! 

Surely  as  you  are  advertised  in  hell, 
My  name  is  pasted  up  with  yours.     You  've  had 
A  mighty  running  spell  of  many  years. 
But  they  're  upon  your  track  !     They  '11  hunt  you  down  ! 
No  need  for  me !     When  you  go  home,  I  '11  follow. 

WOODFORD. 

Is  all  this  real  ?     Mad  old  hag,  speak  plainer  ! 
Are  you,  or  are  you  not 


I  am  Pamela,  — 

Your  slave,  your  tool  once,  as  you  thought.  Your  tempter 
Now  know  me,  your  employer !     'T  was  through  me, 
The  Devil,  our  master,*sent  through  me  his  order 
To  you,  his  meaner  servant.     Was  it  so? 


172  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

I  spoke  no  word,  I  looked  no  look,  but  sent 
Straight  from  my  heart  the  project  into  yours. 
Did  you  not  struggle  at  first  to  keep  it  out  ? 
Did  it  not  creep,  and  creep,  and  wind  itself, 
And  make  itself  a  home  ?     Ah,  was  it  so  ? 
And  even  when  housed,  had  it  not  hid  itself, 
And  dwelt  in  the  dark,  torpid  with  shame  and  fear, 
If  only  your  poor  strength  had  nourished  it  ? 
Did  you  not  feel  the  courage  more  than  yours 
That  braced  you  ?  not  know  strange  the  energy 
That,  in  the  rapid  moment  of  decision, 
Gave  the  quick  spur  to  your  uncertain  will? 

WOODFORD,  aside. 
Which  of  us  is  the  mad  one  ? 


Mine  the  deed. 

Mine  the  reward.     What  have  you  won  by  it  ? 
Were  you  made  richer  by  your  stolen  wealth  ? 
Were  you  made  happier  ?     Do  not  answer  me. 
I  know  as  well  as  you.     I  've  followed  you. 
I  've  seen  how  your  tormented,  anxious  brain 
Refused  to  do  for  you  its  former  work, 
Leaving  the  duper  to  become  the  dupe. 
I  Ve  known  the  quailings  of  your  feeble  heart, 
And  held  you  at  a  distance  by  my  will. 
Had  you  not  been  here  sooner  without  that? 
Look  at  me,  man!     This  is  n«t  now  the  form 
That  woman  wore  whom  you  thought  your  accomplice 


AFTERNOON.  173 

Yet  not  unknown  to  you  this  haggard  face, 

Nor  do  these  wild  eyes  now  first  look  in  yours. 

Have  they  not  watched  your  bed  and  met  your  waking  ? 

Is  not  this  shrivelled  hand  the  same  that  pointed 

Its  menacing  finger  at  your  traitor  lips 

That  sleep  had  half  unsealed  ?     Is  not  this  voice 

Known  the  familiar  haunter  of  your  dreams  ? 

Speak  not !     I  know !     When  your  look  fell  on  me, 

It  saw  made  real  a  phantom  of  the  night. 

I  know  what  purpose  brings  you  here  to-day. 

You  have  tracked  out  your  victims.     You  have  come 

To  learn  the  issue  of  your  crime  ;  to  offer  — 

If  without  too  much  danger  —  late  atonement. 

WOODFORD. 

Oh,  late  indeed !     If  only  not  too  late ! 

DORCAS. 

Of  that  you  shall  be  judge. 

WOODFORD,  aside. 

That  hideous  smile  !  — 
[Aloud. 
Is  death  beforehand  with  my  slow  repentance  ? 


Death  was  beforehand  even  with  my  vengeance. 
The  woman  who  had  wronged  me,  she  who  called 
Upon  her  own  and  on  her  children's  head 
The  doom  of  which  you  were  the  instrument, 


174  TKAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Had  hardly  lifted  to  her  lips  the  cup 
My  hatred  offered,  ere  she  sank  away 
And  passed  beyond  my  reach. 

WOODFORD. 

And  she  had  wronged  you, 
That  gentle  woman  ? 

DORCAS. 

She  had  wronged  me  basely. 
That  is  no  interest  of  yours.     Ask  on 
Of  what  concerns  you. 

WOODFORD,  aside. 

So  the  mother  died. 

Poor  soul !  poor  soul !     She  had  been  dead  ere  this, 
In  any  case,  —  she  had  such  feeble  health. 
And  then  my  task  is  easier  as  it  is. 
The  children  will  not  recollect.  —  Let  's  see. 
My  name  appeared  not.     I  took  all  precautions. 
I  may,  perhaps,  repair,  and  not  confess.  — 

[Aloud. 
And  —  and  the  boy  ?     What  can  you  tell  of  him  ? 

DORCAS. 

Nothing  of  him.     My  child  was  not  a  boy. 

WOODFORD. 

Nothing  ?     He  is  not  here  ?  —  The  most  important ! 


AFTERNOON.  175 

DORCAS. 

To  you  perhaps,  but  not  to  me.     The  girl 
Stood  in  the  place  of  mine.     I  stuck  to  her. 
It  was  her  fate  I  wished  to  live  upon. 

WOODFORD. 

They  were  not  kept  together? 


Surely  not. 

"Why  should  they  be  ?     We  were  not  kept  together, 
My  child  and  I.     And  even  if  they  had  been, 
They  had  been  parted  now  at  all  events. 
You  did  not  look  to  find  a  full-grown  man 
Tied  to  his  sister's  apron-string  or  mine  ? 

WOODFORD. 

Ah,  to  be  sure !     And  you  can  give  no  clue  ? 


How  should  I  give  one  ?     Do  I  read  the  papers  ? 

Do  I  attend  ttie  auctions  ?     Do  I  deal 

In  human  flesh  that  never  injured  me  ? 

You  that  are  always  buying  and  selling  should  tell 

Each  other  what  you  want  to  know,  not  bother 

Those  that  don't  mix  themselves  in  your  affairs.  — 

[Aside. 

What  matter  is  the  boy  ?     Why  don't  he  ask 
About  things  worth  the  knowing  ? 


176  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

WOODFORD,  aside. 

I  must  search. 
Without  the  boy  how  can  I  make  a  stir  ?  — 

[Aloud. 
The  girl?     She  lives? 

DORCAS. 

She  lives. 

WOODFORD. 

And  here  ? 

DORCAS. 

And  here. 

WOODFORD. 

What  has  her  fate  been  ?  —  Has  she  a  kind  —  mistress  ? 

DORCAS. 

A  kinder  mistress  than  she  is  a  servant. 

WOODFORD. 

What  does  that  mean  ? 

DORCAS. 

She  is  not  over  useful. 
Her  free  blood  boils  in  her. 

WOODFORD. 

It  is  not  quelled 
After  so  many  years? 


AFTERNOON.  177 

DOECAS. 

It  had  been  so, 

Perhaps,  if  she  had  stayed  where  you  first  left  her. 
That  had  been  well.     And  yet  what  is  is  better. 

WOODFORD. 

How  came  she  here  ? 


By  Satan's  work,  and  mine. 
You  know  what  house  this  is? 

WOODFORD. 

A  Mr.  Stanley's. 

DORCAS,  aside. 

That 's  all  he  knows.  — 
[Akmd. 

Right.  — 
[Aside. 

All  he  need  to  know  !  — 
[Aloud. 
How  did  you  come  to  find  us  out? 

WOODFORD. 

I  learned 

You  had  been  sold  to  somebody  named  Stanley. 
I  've  searched  the  country  over  for  the  Stanleys. 
This  is  the  third. 

12 


178  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

DORCAS. 

The  right  one.     Now  ask  on. 
I  'm  here  to  answer.     Is  her  mistress  kind  ? 
You  Ve  asked  and  I  have  told  you.     Ask  the  rest 

WOODFORD. 

Has  she  —  is  she  —  has  she  been  married? 


No. 

WOODFORD. 

I  breathe  !     At  least  that 's  well ! 

DORCAS. 

Well  that  her  child 
Has  ne'er  a  father? 

WOODFORD. 

Child  ?     She  has  a  child  ? 

DORCAS. 

And  that  child  one.  —  Well,  is  atonement  easy? 
If  't  were,  you  'd  not  been  here.     Is  pardon  easy  ? 

WOODFORD,  aside. 

Not  even  human  pardon!     The  divine 
How  shall  I  win  ?     Atonement  is  denied ! 


Go  seek  the  boy,  if  your  sin  prick  too  sharp. 


AFTERNOON.  179 

Your  tardy  penitence  may  profit  him. 
He  can  be  cleansed.     His  shame  will  slip  from  him, 
With  the  slave's  name,  like  a  snake's  cast-off  skin. 
But  as  for  these,  though  you  heaped  proof  on  proof, 
Their  friends  would  never  find  it  clear  enough  : 
They  'd  sooner  leave  them  as  they  are  than  own  them. 

WOODFORD,  aside. 

She  says  the  truth.     I  '11  find  the  boy  alone. 
I  cannot  help  these.     If  I  save  but  one, 
It  will  be  much.     I  shall  have  done  my  best. 

DORCAS. 

Go  seek  the  boy.     You  have  your  story  ready : 
You  are  the  faithful  steward,  who,  escaping 
By  miracle  from  shipwreck,  mourned  as  dead 
His  master's  family,  —  until,  by  chance 
Coming  years  afterward  to  a  suspicion 
That  all  had  not  been  lost,  searched  out  the  matter, 
And  found  that  the  poor,  foreign,  orphan  children 
Had  been  confounded  with  the  straying  negroes. 

WOODFORD,  aside. 

Does  her  mind  give  back  mine,  or  do  my  thoughts 
Spring  from  her  brain,  that  thus  she  mimics  me? 

DORCAS. 

Go  seek  the  boy.     And  yet  think  well  !     Sharp  scent 
Will  follow  up  the  traces  you  point  out. 
Not  life  alone,  nor  freedom,  is  in  question,  — 


180  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

But  house  and  lands  ;  and  these  wake  keen  debate. 
They  will  not  take  his  birth  upon  your  word ; 
And  tracking  out  his  history  inch  by  inch, 
Think  you  they  '11  miss  your  part  in  his  adventures,  — 
In  his  and  theirs? 

WOODFORD,  aside. 

She  's  right.     Concealment  would 
Be  fruitless,  and  would  take  from  me  all  merit. 
No !  —  total  silence,  or  a  full  disclosure ! 
A  full  disclosure,  —  that  will  be  the  shortest! 
And  seeing  that  I  am  not  forced  to  this, 
But  come  of  my  free  will  to  offer  it, 
They  will  not  be  too  hard  on  me,  old  man 
As  I  am  now  and  tottering  to  the  grave. 


I  charge  you,  think  before  the  step  is  taken ! 

She  's  dead,  the  feeble  one.     She  might  have  pardoned, 

In  pity  of  your  suffering,  and  in  thanks 

Even  for  her  children's  late  deliverance. 

But  think  you  those  who  're  ousted  for  their  sake 

And  forced  to  own  relations  that  disgrace  them 

Will  overflow  with  gratitude  to  you  ? 

They  '11  vent,  in  form  of  judgment  on  your  crime, 

Their  rage  at  you  for  trying  to  repair  it. 

WOODFOKD,  aside. 

What  would  that  judgment  be  ?     A  prison  ?  —  Death  ! 
I  could  have  borne  imprisonment ;  but  death  — 


AFTERNOON.  181 

I  cannot  face  it,  —  my  crime  half  redeemed,  — 
Perhaps  not  that. 


DORCAS. 

Look  well  before  you  leap  ! 
You  '11  only  run  your  neck  into  the  noose, 
And  give  no  help  to  those  you  die  for. 

WOODFORD,  aside. 

Die? 

I  cannot  die  !     Oh,  I  must  have  more  time  ! 
I  must  consider.     I  must  look  about  me. 
I  '11  search  the  boy  out,  and  determine  after. 


They  '11  take  your  guilt  at  your  own  word.     Not  so 
The  rights  of  those  you  wronged.     These  will  but  find 
Their  lot  more  bitter  as  audacious  claimants 
Than  as  submissive  servants.     Let  them  be. 
What 's  done  is  done. 

WOODFORD,  aside. 

For  me,  as  well  as  them! 
No  hope  for  them,  and  no  return  for  me  ! 

DORCAS. 

For  you,  as  well  as  them ! 

WOODFORD. 

And  yet  repentance 


182  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

DOKCAS. 

Repentance  !     Was  not  Judas  penitent  ? 

Did  he  not  offer  back  the  thirty  pieces? 

And  did  that  hinder  Satan's  getting  him  ? 

Weak  fool !  there  is  no  safety  in  repentance : 

It  is  in  courage  and  in  obstinacy. 

I  'm  safe.     I  know  I  'm  Satan's,  and  obey  him. 

He  aids  me  here,  and  on  the  other  side 

Has  a  snug  corner  ready  waiting  for  me. 

You  would  call  God  your  master  and  serve  Satan; 

And  so  you  anger  both  and  get  but  blows 

And  curses  from  both  sides,  no  pay  from  either. — 

But  you  are  what  you  are,  and  cannot  mend  it ! 

WOODFORD. 

Leave  me !     I  am  on  earth  still,  and  the  demons 
Have  no  right  yet  to  haunt  me ! 


DORCAS. 

9 


And  no  power 

WOODFORD. 

Must  I  still  bear  this  burden? 


You  must  bear  it 
Until  I  bid  you  lay  it  down. 

WOODFORD,  with  sudden  anger. 

Till  you  * 


AFTERNOON.  183 

DORCAS. 

Smooth  out  your  eyebrows.     I  'm  the  head.     You  did 
The  work  I  gave  you.     You  would  threaten  me ! 
What  can  you  do  to  me,  for  whom  life  has 
No  hopes,  and  death  no  fears  ?     'T  is  you   that   trem 
ble, 
Knowing  in  me  the  owner  of  your  secret ! 

WOODFORD,  aside. 

Has  she,  perhaps,  intention  to  forestall  me, 
And  rob  me  of  the  merit  of  repentance  ?  — 

[Aloud. 
I  wronged  you  once,  't  is  true.     I  broke  my  promise. 


I  never  had  expected  else  of  you. 

If  I  had  wanted  what  you  promised  me, 

I  had  found  means  to  make  you  keep  your  word. 

It  was  not  freedom  I  desired,  but  vengeance. 

You  gave  me  what  I  sought.     You  're  safe  from  me, 

Unless  you  threaten.     That  I  bear  not.     I  'm 

Wiser  than  you,  have  better  friends  and  stronger. 

Even  the  good  the  angels  can't  protect, 

If  I,  poor  Dorcas,  set  about  their  ruin. 

It  seems  that  the  God  Christ  has  little  power 

Upon  this  earth.     He  pays  his  debts  in  heaven. 

But  mine  is  prince  of  this  world  and  the  lower. 

You  have  no  aid  nor  helper  here  nor  yonder. 

[Dorcas  goes,  waving  her  hand  with  a  gesture  of  disdain. 


184  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

WOODFOKD. 

The  torturing  hag !  her  power  is  more  than  earthly ! 

When  I  walked  hither  in  the  pleasant  morning, 

It  almost  seemed  that  peace  awaited  me 

Under  the  shade  of  these  tall  trees,  that  stretched 

Their  friendly  arms  as  if  inviting  me 

To  a  still  sanctuary  where  my  soul 

Would  find  itself  delivered  from  its  guilt. 

Oh,  mockery !     This  is  no  sacred  grove, 

Or  to  avenging  furies  dedicated. — 

O  gentle  mother  !  who,  in  our  still  home 

Lying  away  amid  New  England  hills, 

Once  laid  together  my  infant  hands  in  prayer ! 

O  rigid  father !  who  accounted  crime 

A  Sunday  laugh,  a  truant  hour  from  school ! 

0  timid  sister !  bold,  through  love  of  me, 

To  win  the  pardon  of  my  childish  sins  ! 

Well  that  the  grass  is  growing  on  your  graves !  — 

O  childhood  scenes !     O  youthful  joys  and  griefs ! 

Why  do  you  lift  your  tender  images, 

More  torturing  than  memories  of  crime, 

Before  my  sullied,  shrinking  soul  ?  Hence !  hence ! 

Leave  me  to  fiends  whom  I  give  hate  for  hate ! 

But  take  away  those  cruel  loving  eyes 

That  madden  me  with  their  sad  tenderness  !  — 

Come  back,  accomplice  of  my  guilt !  come  back  ! 

You  I  can  look  on !  —  Bring  your  maledictions, 

My  victims !     I  can  bear  your  presence  better 

Than  solitude  possessed  by  grieving  spectres 


AFTERNOON.  185 

That  point  me  to  my  time  of  innocence !  — 

They  have  dispersed  before  that  invocation. 

The  gentler  demons  shrink  before  the  fiercer. 

Remorse  awakes,  and  keen-eyed  Retribution, 

Watching  secure,  with  menacing  eyes,  its  prey. 

Familiar  fiends !  and  how  exorcise  you  ? 

You  flit  not,  frightened  like  the  milder  phantoms. 

There  are  no  stronger  demons  left  to  summon. 

What  spell  has  power  with  you,  O  grim  companions? 

Once  more  the  oracle  within  my  heart, 

Not  cheeringly,  but  sternly  now,  makes  answer : 

Atonement !  —  word  of  hope  once,  —  of  despair, 

Of  condemnation  now.     Again,  Atonement! 

Is  there  hope  still,  then  ?     Would  the  hidden  voice, 

That  seems  the  voice  of  my  most  intimate  self, 

Mock  me  with  falsehood  ?     Yet  how  make  atonement 

For  guilt  whose  fruit  admits  no  remedy  ? 

If  to  repair  stand  not  within  thy  power ', 

Then  cleanse  thy  soul  at  least  by  expiation. 

By  expiation  !     It  must  come  to  that !  — 

Not  yet !  not  yet !  —  Oh,  cowardice  !  oh,  weakness  ! 

No,  —  I  must  struggle  more,  must  suffer  more, 

Before  my  feeble,  vacillating  will 

Resolve  at  last  to  end  my  spirit's  torture 

By  expiation,  —  fruitless  for  my  victims !  — 

Will  even  expiation  be  accepted  ?  —  Selfish, 

Perhaps,  this  haste  to  set  my  soul  at  ease. 

Let  me  think  calmly.     Who  would  make  a  search 

For  the  lost  boy  so  zealously  as  I  should  ? 

Who  with  such  chances  of  success  as  I  ? 


186  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

I  will  put  off  the  moment  of  confession 
Till  I  have  found  him  out.     His  wretched  sister 
Can  never  be  more  lost  than  now.     Forth,  then, 
On  this  new  quest !     I  shall  at  least  have  respite 
While  the  search  lasts. 

And  now  let  me  retreat 
By  the  same  road  I  came.  —  'T  is  fortunate 
I  have  been  seen  by  no  one  but  Pamela. 
They  would  not  know  me.     No,  —  but  they  might  read 
A  guilty  secret  written  on  my  face. 

\He  disappears  among  the  trees,  looking  about  him  cautiously. 


AFTERNOON.  187 


AFTERNOON. 

SCENE  II. 

A  negro  cabin.    PERDITA  seated  near   a  led  on   which   lies  a  dead 
child.     She  chants  in  a  subdued  tone. 


PERDITA. 

There  liest  thou  low,  my  own  sweet,  blighted  flower! 

No  care  of  mine  can  make  thee  bloom  again  ! 
Passed  from  my  life  is  that  dear,  transient  joy,  — 

The  sole  that  opened  on  this  path  of  pain ! 

But  thou,  pure  being !  some  far,  happy  land 
Has  surely  won  thee  to  its  golden  bowers  ! 

While  here  my  heavy  heartbeats  count  the  time, 
Lightly  for  thee  flit  by  the  laughing  hours  ! 

Were  it  but  so !  dearest,  I  would  not  ask 

Thee  back  to  pain,  could  I  but  know  thee  blest ! 

Alas !  alas  !     I  see  a  pallid  shade 

Wandering  through  space  and  nowhere  finding  rest! 

To  the  proud  heaven  of  thy  father's  sires 

Dar'st  thou,  poor  trembling  one,  thy  look  to  raise? 

In  vain !  in  vain  !  their  cold  blue  Saxon  eyes 
Look  sternly  down  upon  thy  pleading  gaze  ! 

Stand'st  thou  a  suppliant  near  the  dusky  land 
Where  Africa's  swart  sons  their  Eden  hold  ? 


188  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

No  room  for  thee !     They  read  thy  alien  blood 
On  thy  pale  cheek  and  locks  of  waving  gold. 

Oh,  everywhere  repelled  !     In  God's  wide  world 
Hast  thou  no  home  ?     Does  heaven  deny  its  joy  ? 

Is  there  no  bosom  pitiful  and  kind 

To  fold  thee  till  I  come,  my  outcast  boy  ? 

Ah,  there  is  One  who  trod  this  earthly  path 

With  bleeding  feet, — who  knew  our  grief,  our  shame  ! 

He  was  rejected  and  despised.     Seek  Him ! 
Full  surely  He  will  not  deny  thy  claim  ! 

Thou  crucified  and  mocked !  a  mother's  love 
Shared  Thy  last  pangs  upon  the  bloody  tree ! 

O  Jesus  !  by  that  heart  that  ached  to  Thine, 
Suffer  my  little  child  to  come  to  Thee ! 

[  DORCAS  enters  and  stands  in  the  doorway,  regarding  Perdita,  who 
remains  motionless. 

DORCAS,  aside. 

A  ray  of  sunshine  almost  fell  on  you, 
Poor  cellar-plant !  but  my  dark  shadow  came 
Between  you  and  its  warmth.     Pine  on !  dwarf  on ! 
Who  knows  where  pines  and  dwarfs  a  fairer  flower 
Than  ever  you  had  claim  to,  swarthy  Hecate  ! 
How  she  sits,  still  and  tearless  !     Is  he  dead  ?  — 

[Approaching  the  bed;  aloud. 
Did  your  Miss  Helen  send  the  medicines  ? 


AFTERNOON.  189 

[Perdita  makes  a  negative  sign  with  her  head. 
I  knew  she  would  not !     Had  you  been  a  lady, 
He  had  been  living  now,  your  boy,  and  playing. 
What  care  !  what  thought !  how  had  the  doctors  come 
And  stood  about  him,  studying  how  to  save  him  ! 
Think  you  now,  if  Miss  Helen's  child  were  sick, 
They  'd  let  him  die  for  want  of  help,  as  this  did  ? 


Her  child  was  born  to  wealth,  and  mine  to  woe. 
God  made  it  so.     I  do  not  strive  with  Him. 
And  then  Miss  Helen  is  so  kind  and  good ! 
I  would  not  have  her  feel  what  I  am  feeling, 
Not  even  to  save  myself !  —  Yet  look  at  him  ! 
Is  he  not  fair  ?     Her  baby  is  not  fairer  ? 

DORCAS,  fiercely. 

How  dare  you  set  yourself  above  your  caste? 
What  are  you  better  than  another  slave  ? 
So,  so !  your  white  blood  gives  you  all  this  pride ! 

PERDITA. 

I  am  not  proud,  —  or  only  proud  of  him; 
And  he  is  not.     Oh,  be  not  harsh  with  me! 
I  am  but  what  you  made  me,  —  and  the  Lord. 

DORCAS. 

I  made  you  ?  —  Yes,  child,  you  are  what  I  made  you  ! 
You  never  spoke  a  truer  word  than  that ! 


190  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

[Angrily. 

But  what  are  you,  to  look  with  scorn  on  color? 
For  all  your  pride  and  all  your  white  descent, 
Your  skin  is  darker  now  than  mine.     Look  here  ! 
Compare  your  arm  with  mine !     Is  it  not  darker  ? 

PEKDITA,  absently. 

Different. 

DORCAS,  fiercely 

You  hussy !  dare  you  tell  me  so  ?  — 
Different?     And  well  it  may  be  different, 
Our  rich  brown  skin,  from  that  of  Europe's  outcasts  ! 
Ours  has  the  soft,  warm  tint  the  sun  lays  on, 
And  the  blood  courses  rich  and  pure  beneath  it: 
Their  creeping  blood,  a  turbid,  dingy  liquor, 
Gives  their  thin  skin  its  own  unwholesome  hue. 
My  mother  was  a  princess  in  her  land  ; 
My  father  was  a  nobleman  in  his. 
I  was  not  born  upon  this  vulgar  soil ! 

PERDITA,  imploringly. 
Dorcas !  not  iiow !  not  now !  my  heart  is  sore ! 

DORCAS,  lowering  her  tone. 
It  had  been  sorer,  had  your  baby  lived! 

[Bitterly,  but  almost  with  a  touch  of  softness. 
You  11  give  him  to  the  kind  embracing  earth, 
That  folds  her  arms  about  the  friendless  outcast 
As  tenderly  as  round  the  pampered  nursling 
Of  gilded  homes.     More  tenderly :  no  tomb 


AFTERNOON.  191 

Divides  him  from  her  with  its  marble  coldness ; 
The  summer  sun  sends  its  warm  rays  to  him ; 
The  birds  sing  morning  hymns  above  his  bed ; 
The  springing  flowers  bend  tenderly  about  it. 
Lay  him  to  rest,  and  let  your  heart  rest  too  ! 

PERDITA. 

Dorcas,  dear  Dorcas  !  you  speak  soothing  to  me  ! 

Say  on !  say  on  !  oh,  I  have  need  of  it ! 

I  never  had  another  mother.     Hecate 

Would  never  let  me  call  her  so.     'T  was  you 

That  watched  me  when  I  was  as  young  as  this  one. 

DORCAS. 
Watched  you  ?  and  tenderly  ?     You  '11  not  say  that  ? 


Oh,  the  first  taste  I  had  of  life  was  bitter ! 
You  know  it,  Dorcas.     Never  look  of  love 
Or  word  of  kindness  !     'T  is  not  to  reproach  you, 
I  am  too  broken  for  that.     And  your  last  words, 
Were  they  not  almost  kind  ?     Say  on !  say  on  ! 
And  only  let  me  call  you  mother ! 

DORCAS. 

No! 

If  she  who  had  a  right  to  call  me  mother 
Slept  deeply  as  this  little  one,  I  might 
Receive  another  to  my  heart.     Till  then 
It  waits  for  her. 


192  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


PERDITA. 


You  have  a  daughter  ?  —  where  ? 

DORCAS. 

Where  ?  and  you  ask  me  where  ?     I  hear  her  call  me 

On  every  wind.     At  times  I  hear  her'  laugh 

Ring  out  clear,  happy;  and  at  times  her  shriek 

Is  borne  to  me  upon  the  midnight  blast. 

Whence  ?     If  I  knew  it,  were  I  here  ?     What  chains 

Could  hold,  what  dangers  keep  me  back? 

PERDITA. 

Oh,  none ! 

None  even  such  a  feeble  thing  as  I  am  ! 
And  you  !  —  And  you  have  lost  her  ?     Not  by  death  ? 

DORCAS. 

She  was  sent  from  me  by  a  woman's  whim, 
A  woman's  spite.     My  daughter  was  too  pretty ; 
She  sang  too  sweetly ;  was  too  like  her  own. 


Oh,  Dorcas,  had  I  known  what  you  have  suffered, 
I  could  have  loved  you,  spite  of  all  your  harshness! 


Keep  back  your  love  !     I  will  have  none  of  it !  — 
But  bless  your  God  for  this  calm  sleep,  this  safety. 
He  is  beyond  their  reach. 


AFTERNOON.  193 

PERDITA. 

Oh,  let  me  love  you ! 

DORCAS. 

I  will  not  ! 

PERDITA. 

Dorcas,  oh,  I  must  love  something ! 
It  is  so  empty  here  ! 

[Putting  her  hand  to  her  breast. 


Love  your  own  mother ! 
She  's  beautiful,  and  I  am  old  and  hateful ! 


She  's  beautiful.     Alas,  I  cannot  love  her ! 
She  awes  me  back,  more  than  you  frighten  me. 

DORCAS. 

Live,  then,  alone,  like  me  !     'T  is  Heaven's  justice,  - 
Or  Hell's ;  your  God's  or  mine  !     Live,  then,  alone ! 
Let  your  youth  wither  and  your  heart  grow  stone ! 
This  was  a  warmer  heart  that  now  is  flint  ! 

PERDITA. 

Dorcas,  I  pity  you.     Give  me  your  pity ! 
Let  us  not  hate,  and  both  of  us  so  lonely! 

DORCAS. 

You  hate  !    You  cannot  hate  !     You  have  not  force ! 
13 


194  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Therefore  I  tell  you  that  you  ought  to  hate  me. 
Her  blood  is  in  your  veins  who  was  the  cause 
That  I  am  standing  here  alone  and  loveless. 
Now  offer  me  again  your  love,  your  pity  ! 

PERDITA. 

Her  blood  is  mine !  Whom  can  you  mean  ?  Not  Hecate  ? 


And  if  not  Hecate,  then  another.     Ask  not. 

PERDITA. 

And  what  if  one  akin  to  me  have  wronged  you  ? 
Why  should  that  hinder  me  to  pity  you  ? 


I  did  not  wait  for  pity,  empty  pity. 
I  have  had  vengeance,  girl !  I  have  had  vengeance ! 
There  is  not  one  of  all  your  blood  and  race, 
From  her  proud  sister  to  that  nameless  windfall, 
That  has  not  felt  it ! 

PERDITA. 

Dorcas,  do  not  tell  me 
That  you  have  wrought  him  harm  ? 

DORCAS. 

I  will  not  tell  you! 

PERDITA. 

You  did  not  —  did  not  take  his  life  ? 


AFTERNOON.  195 

DORCAS. 

No,  no! 

A  stupid  vengeance !     Could  I  send  the  life 
Back  to  his  veins,  I  'd  do  it  for  her  sake 
Who  made  me  childless  with  a  living  child ! 

PERDITA. 

Speak  not  so  loud  in  presence  of  my  dead ! 

DORCAS. 

Even  you  have  courage  to  defend  your  child !  — 
You  feared  that  I  had  power  to  work  my  threat 
And  give  him  back  his  life  ? 

PERDITA. 

No :  only  God 

Can  do  that,  and  He  will  not.     But  lay  not 
The  touch  of  hatred  on  that  innocent  form ! 
Let  him  at  least  lie  in  his  grave  in  peace, 
Nor  take  a  curse  to  sleep  with  him ! 


It  needs  not 

My  touch  to  ban  him.     On  your  race  there  rests 
A  curse  that  will  not  pass.     Above  the  earth 
Or  under  it,  't  will  find  them  out. 


You  have 


196  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Great  power,  they  say.     I  would  not  anger  you. 
I  will  be  humble  to  you,  very  humble, — 
And  patient,  as  I  always  was  till  now. 


Poor  creeping  coward  !  only  out  of  fear 

You  speak  me  fair.     I  see  your  guile,  you  reptile  ! 

Your  baseness  does  but  tempt  the  crushing  foot. 

I  would  not  spare  you,  if  I  could,  one  pang. 

But  I  have  now  no  power  to  save  or  smite. 

The  curse  was  sent  forth  by  a  frenzied  heart; 

And  where  it  fell,  it  clings  and  burns,  like  vitriol, 

That  the  hand  casts,  but  casts  without  recall.  — 

If  I  could  pity,  't  is  the  haughty  Hecate, 

Who  does  not  know  what  cause  she  has  to  hate  me, 

But  loathes  by  instinct.     I  can  scan  her  heart, 

And  read  my  own  in  her  fierce  agonies. 

I  know  what  't  is  to  have  a  child  not  mine : 

What  *t  is  to  feel  the  bitter  love  turn  hate 

Through  mere  foreboding ;  that  hate  change  to  love 

Again,  to  passionate,  wild  love,  when  comes 

The  black  hour  of  fulfilment.     This  will  come 

To  Hecate  and  to  you.     Then  look  to  feel 

For  once  the  clasping  of  a  mother's  arms, 

For  once  to  read  a  mother's  grief  and  love 

Upon  the  face  of  her  who  gave  you  birth ! 

PERDITA. 

Oh,  let  it  come  that  once,  whatever  follow ! 


AFTERNOON.  197 


It  will,  be  sure  !     The  hour  of  separation 

Will  give  you,  when  it  takes  from  you,  a  mother !  — 

The  sun  is  setting.     See  the  lengthened  shadows! 

How  bright  it  is  without !  how  dingy  here  ! 

There  's  hardly  light  enough  to  see  your  child. 

Heed  that  the  demons  take  him  not  away 

And  leave  a  vampire  in  his  place !     Such  things 

Do  happen,  you  know.     I  '11  go  and  beg  two  candles 

Up  at  the  house,  to  light  your  watch.     Thus  much 

I  '11  do  for  you,  though  you  are  Hecate's  child. 

With  the  first  daylight  we  will  make  for  him 

A  little  grave  and  lay  a  stone  on  it, 

Where  you  may  sit  at  night  and  talk  to  him, 

While  yet  you  can.     Heed  me,  —  a  change  is  near ! 

The  hour  of  parting  comes,  —  the  hour  of  parting 

From  all  you  love,  the  living  and  the  dead  ! 

Hecate  must  know  what  I  have  known,  and  you 

Have  to  live  out  again  my  daughter's  sorrows. 

An  exile  she ;  an  exile  you  must  be ! 


The  living  and  the  dead !     Lost  she  her  dead  ? 
I  must  go  forth  and  leave  his  grave  untended? 


You  must.     'T  is  writ.     And  by  this  sign  I  know 
My  daughter's  child  sleeps  in  a  lonely  grave. 

[Going,  she  looks  back. 
Outside  your  threshold,  in  a  sheltered  place, 


198  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Lay  privately  some  valued  thing.     The  demon, 
Lurking  to  catch  the  spirit  of  your  child, 
Will  take  your  gift  in  ransom.     See  to  it ! 

[Goes. 


TRAGEDY    OF    EEROES. 


EVENING. 


TEAGEDY    OF    EKKOKS. 


EVENING. 

SCENE. —  The  glade  in  the  wood.  Moonlight.  Groups  of  slaves,  as  in 
the  First  Scene  of  Morning.  In  the  foreground,  towards  the  left, 
SOEDEL  leans  against  a  tree.  In  the  centre  of  the  foreground  a 
group  of  persons,  among  whom  are  MELAS,  FLORA,  ROXANA,  PETER, 
CHLOE,  DAFFY,  and  others. 


Sordel  's  himself  to-night.     With  this  clear  moonlight, 
This  gentle  air  to  fan  us,  and  his  music, 
What  is  there  left  to  wish  for? 

[To  Peter. 

Uncle  Peter, 

Tell  us,  tell  truly  now,  were  Oscar's  rhymes 
Much  sweeter  to  the  ear  and  to  the  heart 
Than  our  Sordel's  ? 

PYRRHUS. 

Oscar,  the  famous  singer? 

MELAS. 

That  died  last  year. 


202  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

PETEK. 

That  died  last  year  indeed ! 
He  died  full  twenty  years  ago. 

PYERHUS. 

Not  so. 

MELAS,  to  Pyrrhus. 
Don't  contradict  him.     He  is  old. 

PETEK. 

Old  ?     Oscar  ? 
He  was  already  old  when  I  was  young. 


He  never  came  to  this  plantation  ? 


Never. 

Folks  came  from  far  and  near  to  him,  but  he 
Never  stirred  foot  except  to  seek  the  wood 
Where  he  wove  baskets  and  his  songs  together. 
They  say,  that,  of  all  trees,  he  loved  the  pine. 


Sang  he  so  well? 

PETER. 

Boy,  I  will  tell  you  this: 
What  music  is,  what  song  is,  none  of  you 
Born  in  these  days  can  ever  know  nor  will. 


EVENING.  203 

We  have  had  singers ;  but  their  race  is  out. 
Sordel  does  well.     For  those  who  have  not  heard 
What  I  have  heard,  —  yes,  and  for  those  who  have, 
He  brings  a  pleasant  hour.     But,  in  my  youth ! 
Nor  do  I  now  mean  Oscar. 

PYRRHUS. 

We  may  have 
As  good  as  he  some  day. 


Speak  soberly. 

You  know  not  what  you  talk  of.     Never  ear 
Nor  heart  will  know  such  strains  again.     They  say 
His  mother  was  a  wonder-working  woman, 
Who,  by  strange  arts  and  heathenish  devices, 
Brought  with  her  from  the  other  side  the  world, 
Compelled  the  spirits  of  the  air  to  teach  him 
Tones  never  heard  before  from  mortal  lips. 
Men  listened  at  the  peril  of  their  souls, 
But  still  they  listened. 

MELAS. 

What  was  Oscar  like? 


I  can  remember  him  still  straight  and  tall. 

His  cheek  was  thin ;  his  brow  was  seamed ;  his  eye 

Bright  with  a  gleam  that  was  not  earth's,  —  nor  heaven's. 


204  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

MELAS. 

The  secret  of  his  skill  is  lost  ? 


Oh,  boy, 

You  would  not  search  for  it?     Know  you  the  price 
He  paid  for  it?     The  cruel  Unseen  Powers 
Took  back  their  gifts,  and  took  his  spirit  with  them. 
Full  twenty  weary  years  the  body  lingered  — 
Trying  to  die  —  after  the  soul  had  left  it. 

DAFFY,  to  Chloe. 
Is  all  this  true  ? 

CHLOE. 

People  believed  so  once. 


But  we  had  other  singers  in  our  time, 
Not  aided  by  black  arts,  whose  every  song 
Was  worth  a  year  full  of  the  idle  piping 
That  men  delight  in  now.     And  farther  back 
There  were  still  greater.     In  my  father's  day, 
For  instance 

MELAS. 

Uncle  Peter,  we  will  grant  you 
That  former  days  were  richer  days  than  ours 
In  rhyme  and  music. 

PYRBHUS. 

There  was  little  work, 
They  tell  us,  in  those  times;  and  ease  is  songful. 


EVENING.  205 

MELAS. 

And  then  they  had  a  language  of  their  own, 
Those  older  singers,  and  strains  brought  from  far : 
The  language  and  the  strains  their  mothers  taught  them. 
For  those  who  listened  and  for  those  who  sang, 
Voices  of  home  and  happy  childhood  mingled 
With  the  sweet  melody.     This  made  it  sacred. 
And  therefore  has  their  memory  passed  to  us 
Hallowed  and  dear.     Those  precious  songs  are  lost : 
Or,  if  of  some  the  words  remain,  the  sense 
Is  hid ;  there  'a  no  one  to  interpret  it. 

PYRRHUS.      • 

Perhaps  we  shall  be  boasting  to  our  children 
Of  what  our  music  was ! 


'T  is  like  you  may. 
That  does  n't  make  it  better  now. 

FLORA. 

Oh,  Pyrrhus, 

Don't  anger  the  old  man !     And  all  agree 
These  times  are  not  like  those. 

MELAS. 

Sordel  himself 
Owns  he  has  not  the  force  of  those  old  rhymers. 

PYRRHUS. 

Yet  we  have  those  who  suit  us  and  our  time. 


206  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

MELAS. 

Who  put  our  thoughts  in  words  for  us,  —  who  tell  us 
What  we  have  felt,  but  knew  not  how  to  speak. 


Just  so  it  is.     When  I  have  heard  Sordel, 
Or  sometimes  Daniel,  I  have  felt  my  thought 
Set  in  his  verse.     It  moved  so  easily, 
I  wondered  how  I  missed  the  words  he  found. 


We  have  our  sacred  songs,  which,  if  they  speak  not 
Of  a  lost  home,  tell*  of  a  home  to  find. 
Let  us  not  envy  other  times  or  people. 

[JUBAL  enters  from  the  left,  in  a  cloak.  He  approaches,  unnoticed, 
the  group  in  the  foreground,  and  listens  to  their  conversation 
with  a  pleased  and  paternal  expression. 


Sordel  must  sing  again.     These  old-world  stories 
Are  not  so  cheering  as  his  songs. 


Ask,  Melas. 

MELAS,  approaching  Sordel. 

So  still,  Sordel?  You  that  make  others  glad 
Seem  not  to  share  the  cordial  of  your  music. 
My  heart 's  still  beating  time  to  your  last  song. 

[Sordel  does  not  answer. 


EVENING.  207 

MELAS,  returning  to  Flora. 

I  dare  not  urge.     He  'a  tired,  or  else  unhappy. 

PYRRHUS. 

He  must  be  happy  as  a  mortal  can  be! 


He  could  be  happier;  for  he  could  be  rich. 
He  only  has  his  song. 

MELAS. 

Is  song  not  riches  ? 

JUBAL  lays  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  Melas  and  nods  to  him,  smil 
ing  pleasantly.  He  then  throws  off  his  cloak  and  discovers  a  stringed 
instrument,  of  a  quaint  form,  ornamented  with  rude  carvings.  As 
he  tunes  his  instrument,  he  addresses  Melas  in  a  sort  of  recitative. 

Who  should  answer,  if  not  I  ? 
I  read  your  longing  in  your  eye. 
Boy,  this  riches  they  who  covet, 
To  win  it,  only  need  to  love  it : 
But  boldly,  strongly;  for  our  art 
Smiles  never  on  the  faint  of  heart. 

[He  preludes  and  then  sings,  accompanying  himself  on  his 
instrument. 

Who  is  richer  than  the  singer  ? 
Though  he  have  not  lands  nor  gold, 
Yet  the  wealth  his  fancies  hold 
Is  more  than  miser  ever  told. 
Who  is  richer  than  the  singer? 


208  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Is  it,  then,  the  foolish  clinger 
To  the  treasures  of  the  ground, 
"With  long  toil  and  stooping  found, 
And  which,  gathered,  are  to  keep 
At  cost  of  joy  and  cost  of  sleep  ? 
Ask  their  owner  which  most  hard, 
To  earn  his  thousands  or  to  guard? 

[Interlude. 

Ah,  the  singer's  treasures  rare 
Come  without  his  thought  or  care! 
It  is  ordered,  everything 
Shall  to  him  a  tribute  bring. 
And  he  sits  a  tranquil  king, 
With  his  realm  about  him  spread, 
While  the  gentle  and  the  dread, 
The  uncomely  and  the  fair, 
The  abounding  and  the  bare, 
With  a  smile  or  with  a  frown, 
Duly  lay  their  offering  down. 
Joyful  sunshine,  mournful  shade, 
False  abyss  and  open  glade, 
Wasting  flood  and  fertile  shower, 
Blasted  trunk  and  budding  flower, 
Glaring  sand-plain,  forest  dim, 
Gentle  hill-slope,  rock-cliff  grim, 
All  must  minister  to  him. 
Breezes  on  the  bending  grass 
Leave  a  token  as  they  pass ; 
Floating  islands  of  the  sky 
Waft  a  gift  as  they  sail  by; 


EVENING.  209 

Silver  brooklets,  chiming  sweet, 

Lay  their  music  at  his  feet; 

Watchers  by  the  brooded  nest 

Give  the  gladness  of  their  breast ; 

Shedding  rose  and  fading  leaf 

Make  an  offering  of  their  grief: 

No  shape  or  life  in  earth  or  space 

But  knows  him  there  and  does  him  grace. 

[Interlude. 

Has  the  singer  greater  pain 
To  keep  his  fortune  than  to  gain? 
How  should  he  from  riches  part 
Who  has  his  treasury  in  his  heart? 

[All  remain  silent  for  a  moment,  then 


He  is  not  poor,  nor  are  they  poor  who  hear  him ! 

FLORA. 

Blessed  is  song !  What  were  the  world  without  it  ? 

JUBAL,  sings. 

Who  is  rich,  if  not  the  singer  ? 
Is  he  not  the  joyful  bringer 
Of  the  best  things  mortals  know  ? 
How  should  he  such  gifts  bestow, 
If  Heaven  had  not  loved  him  best 
And  made  him  richer  than  the  rest? 

[Interlude. 

What  would  you  have  known  of  Beauty, 
14 


210  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

If  the  singer  had  not  brought 
Down  from  heaven  that  pearly  thought? 
How  learned  you  the  name  of  Duty  ? 
Did  that  diamond  pure  and  fine 
Not  lie  buried  in  its  mine, 
Until  his  divining  dream 
Opened  the  secret  of  its  gleam  ? 
Your  existence,  rudely  wrought 
Of  coarse  iron,  being  fraught 
With  the  light  those  jewels  shed, 
Seemed  from  that  hour  with  silver  spread. 
[Interlude. 

Lands  and  gold 

Make  hard  and  cold. 
But  the  singer's  wealth  makes  tender. 
He  can  be  a  liberal  spender, 
Nor  yet  see  his  storehouse  bare. 
When  the  poor  have  had  their  share, 
Still  he  has,  and  has  to  spare. 

Shut  out  none 

With  walls  of  stone ! 
All  may  rob  him  at  their  pleasure  ; 
For  when  all  enjoy  his  treasure, 
Still  it  is  not  less  his  own. 

[Jubal  throws  Ms  cloak  over  his  shoulders  and  is  about  to  go. 
The  people,  who  stand  for  a  moment,  still  wrapt  in  his  song 
after  it  has  ceased,  suddenly  wake,  rush  fwward,  surround 
and  detain  him. 

JUBAL. 

Let  me  go,  children !     You  have  had  of  me 


EVENING.  211 

All  I  am  worth.     The  music,  not  the  case, 
Is  your  affair.     When  you  have  had  the  grain, 
Let  the  wind  sweep  the  husk  off.     My  last  song 
I  leave  with  you. 

[SoRDEL  comes  f&wnard,  takes  the  old  marts  hand  reverently, presses 
it  to  his  heart,  then  to  his  lips,  and  returns  to  his  place  by 
the  tree. 

VOICES. 

But  who  ?     But  whence  ?     What  name  ? 
Oh,  when  we  tell  the  story  of  this  day, 
What  is  that  name  that  we  would  least  forget  ? 


And  do  you  know  me  not  without  my  name  ? 
I  am  that  Jubal  whom  you  all  have  heard  of,  — 
Vowed,  with  the  Christian  water  that  washed  off 
The  Cain  and  fallen  man  in  me,  to  service 
Of  instruments  of  wind  and  string.     These  pipes 

[He  takes  a  set  of  rude  pipes  from  his  bosom. 

Were  my  first  organ.     While  all  yet  lay  void 

And  formless  in  my  soul,  I  fashioned  them, 

Not  knowing  what  I  did.     They  touched  my  lips,  — 

I  felt  the  Spirit  move  upon  my  being, 

Composing  to  their  place  the  jarring  parts. 

And  now  it  breathed  through  me  and  there  was  light ! 

That  radiant  day  !  its  joy  can  thrill  me  yet  ! 

After,  came  to  me  new  and  new  creations, 

Each  more  complete  ;  and  last  of  all  was  born 

This  human  gift  of  melody  in  speech, 

Which  when  I  won,  the  song  that  only  breathed 


212  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Seemed  like  the  mute  prayer  of  the  dumber  creatures 

For  freer  voice,  which  I  put  up  no  more. 

Then  did  the  harp,  to  which  I  was  baptized 

Not  less  than  to  the  pipes,  invite  my  hand, 

And  offer  its  sweet  tinklings  to  attend 

As  winged  air-sprites  on  my  mounting  words. 

[He  raises  the  pipes  to  his  lips,  and  then  replaces  them  in  his  bosom. 
Yet  do  I  keep  my  earliest  consoler 
Nearer  my  heart  than  any  newer  joy. 

VOICES. 
Jubal ! 

MELAS. 

We  should  have  known  you! 

JUBAL. 

Said  I  not? 

MELAS. 

And  yet  you  look  much  younger  than  you  can  be. 


My  son,  I  am  yet  younger  than  appears.     , 
I  never  learned  to  count  my  age  by  years. 
While  swift  thoughts  visit  me,  fresh  fancies  gladden,  — 
While  hope  can  charm  me  still,  and  memory  sadden,  — 
While  still  my  heart  to  the  old  friends  is  true, 
And  yet  gives  hearty  welcome  to  the  new, — 
While  praise  and  shame  my  spirit  load  or  lighten, — 
While  every  change  has  power  to  shade  or  brighten,  — 
May  I  not  claim,  without  offence  to  truth, 
Though  seventy  years  oppose,  I  hold  my  youth? 


EVENING.  213 

FLORA,  laughing. 

He  is  as  young  as  any  one  of  us. 
How  bright  his  eye  is !     His  foot  pats  the  ground, 
Timing  his  words  now,  as  before  his  music. 

MELAS,  to  Jubal 
"Why  sing  you,  then,  for  the  last  time  to-day  ? 


If  from  this  day  I  cease  to  pour  my  song, 
It  is  not  that  I  feel  the  fountain  dried. 
But  I  would   lay  the  harp  down  ere  my  hand 
Forget  its  cunning.     I  would  have  the  echo 
Of  my  last  song  die  sweetly  on  the  ear, 
And  die  regretted. 

MELAS. 

And  so  it  would,  whenever ! 


I  should  have  known  you,  Jubal.     I  remember, 
On  the  great  wedding-day,  that  you  came  down 
To  our  plantation  with  your  master  then, 
Ours  now. 

JUBAL. 

He  was  not  even  then  my  master. 
And  I  might  say  I  never  had  a  master. 
I  was  your  master's  mother's.     When  she  went, 
She  left  me  unto  hands  as  weak  as  hers ; 
And  they,  with  loving  thanks  for  loving  service, 
Gave  me  the  freedom  I  had  never  missed. 
Now  I  belong  only  to  God  and  music. 


214  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

VOICES. 

Coine  back,  then  !  oh,  come  back !     Your  home  is  here  ! 


And  would  you  have  me  turn  her  gift  against  her? 

And  who  shall  tend  for  me  that  ailing  boy, 

When  I  am  no  more  near  him?     Who  shall  make 

The  long  nights  short  for  him  by  reading,  tireless 

Through  double  love  of  him  and  of  the  page  ? 

This  place  is  dear  ;  I  love  the  very  ground ; 

For  it  was  here  that  I  was  called  and  chosen. 

But  when  Miss  Cora  bade  me  hence  with  her, 

How  could  I  let  her  go  where  all  was  strange, 

And  I  to  stay,  not  knowing  if  she  missed  me  ? 

Besides,  I  thought  new  climates  and  new  scenes 

Might  give  me  higher  thoughts  and  richer  fancies. 

And  then,  she  knew  one  music  from  another. 

So  I  consented,  and  my  choice  was  blest. 

For,  after  that,  I  made  this  happy  harp, — 

The  third  and  best,  —  I  played  it  at  her  wedding, 

And  at  your  master's.     Those  were  its  great  days. 

But  no  rejoicing  in  our  neighborhood 

For  twenty  years  it  has  not  shared  and  heightened. 

It  never  sounded  yet  for  your  Miss  Helen  ; 

But  when  I  heard  her  son,  the  heir,  should  come 

To  the  old  place  for  the  first  time  to-day, 

I  knew  its  voice  and  mine  must  aid  the  welcome. 

And  from  this  day  I  do  devote  to  silence 

Strings  that  have  never  spoken  but  for  joy : 

I  will  not  further  tempt  their  luck,  nor  mine. 


EVENING.  215 


VOICES. 

But  stay  !  but  stay  ! 


FLORA. 

We  have  not  thanked  you  yet. 


I  gave  but  what  was  given  me  for  you. 

I  should  have  wronged  you,  had  I  kept  it  from  you. 

MELAS,  detaining  him. 

Does  he  for  whom  the  earth  and  air  have  gifts 
Wrong,  if  he  hold  them  for  his  lonely  use  ? 

JUBAL. 

If  the  flowers  wither  in  the  selfish  hand, 

If  the  song  die  within  the  stifling  heart, 

It  shall  be  answered  for,  young  man !     And  therefore 

Have  these  flowers  thorns  for  those  who  share  them  not, 

This  song  afflicts  the  breast  where  it  is  pent. 

For  God  is  oftener  gracious  in  the  pain 

We  pray  to  Him  may  pass  than  in  the  ease 

We  note  not  to  give  thank  for. 

FLORA. 

He  is  gone ! 

JUBAL,  going,  turns  and  waves  his  hand  to  Melas. 
Who  struggles  with  dumb  music  in  his  breast, 
Give  it  but  way  and  let  his  soul  have  rest ! 


216  TKAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

PYRRHUS. 

Jubal !  a  pleasant  name ! 

MANY,  to  Roxana. 

Oh,  teU  us  of  him  ! 

ROXANA. 

I  saw  him  only  once,  before  to-day, 

As  I  have  told  you:  at  my  mistress'  wedding. 

VOICES. 

But  why,  but  why  came  he  not  back  to  us  ? 

ROXANA. 

Our  master's  mother  left  him  to  her  sister. 

FLORA. 

Our  mistress  would  have  valued  him  as  much. 

ROXANA. 

She  heard  him  but  that  once,  and  had  Theresa. 

FLORA. 

We  have  Sordel. 

PYRRHUS. 

What  can  we  ask  for  more  ? 

PETER. 

I  fear,  I  fear,  this  Jubal  is  too  jovial  ! 
I  have  known  many  singers  in  my  day: 
They  're  sad  and  silent  when  they  do  not  sing. 


EVENING.  217 

FLORA. 

Sordel  is  so:  that  shows  him  the  right  sort. 


Song  is  their  language,  and  they  have  no  other. 

SORDEL  comes  forward,  preludes  and  sings. 
"Would  you  the  singer's  feeling  trace  ? 

Then  take  not  for  the  true 
The  mood  that 's  written  on  his  face, 

But  that  he  wakes  in  you. 

Not  on  his  brow  the  sunshine  lies, 
Not  there  the  shadow  rests ; 

His  joys  shine  out  from  other  eyes, 
His  griefs  swell  other  breasts. 

Nor  trust  his  verse;  that,  too,  beguiles; 

But  the  heart's  echo  hear: 
For  sorrow  often  speaks  in  smiles, 

And  gladness  through  a  tear. 

If,  when  his  song  pours  light  and  free, 
Your  hearts  uncheered  remain, 

'T  is  that  the  careless  melody 
Springs  from  a  heart  in  pain. 

Or  do  the  faintly  murmured  words 
Breathe  of  delight  and  rest, 

Though  plaintive  as  the  song  of  birds 
Above  the  guarded  nest? 


218  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

'T  is  that  the  spirit's  truth  destroys 

The  fond  dissembler's  art : 
His  strain  reveals  the  tender  joys 

That  nestle  in  his  heart. 

PYRRHUS,  to  Peter. 
How  does  that  please  you,  Father  Peter? 

PETER,  with  candor. 

Well. 

I  don't  refuse  to  listen  to  your  songs 
Because  I  have  heard  better.     I  'm  not  proud. 

[Enter  MILO,  chanting  in  a  loud,  sonorous  voice.  As  he  proceeds, 
the  rest  become  silent,  one  after  another,  until  the  attention  of 
all  is  turned  upon  him.  He  advances  towards  the  foreground. 


Great  house,  great  barn,  great  coach,  great  trees,  great 

lands, 

All  his !  and  then,  all  his  these  heaps  of  hands ! 
And  he  to  leave  all  this  and  go  away  ? 
No,  don't  believe  it !  no,  he  means  to  stay  ! 

VOICES. 

What  is  he  talking  of?     Who  go  ?     All  these 
Are  our  own  master's :  house,  barn,  land,  and  trees. 
What  can  it  mean  ?     He  leave  and  go  away  ? 
It  is  impossible! 

MILO. 

Why,  so  I  say. 


EVENING.  219 

Who  knows  if  in  the  world  he  comes  to  next 

He  '11  have  first  choice  ?     How  would  his  soul  be  vexed, 

If,  coming  to  the  other  side,  it  found 

It  was  to  harrow,  not  to  have  the  ground ! 

VOICES. 
"What  can  it  be  ?     It 's  terrible,  this  doubt ! 

OTHER  VOICES. 

Come  to  it,  then !  Whose  soul  ?  Whose  soul  ?  Speak  out ! 


Such  things  have  happened,  so  they  say,  and  worse. 

A  heavy  tombstone  is  a  heavy  purse. 

This  lifetime's  gold  weighs  down  the  dead  man  so, 

His  spirit  cannot  stretch  its  wings  to  go 

To  the  best  world,  but,  dragged  and  pulled,  must  fall 

Eight  through  the  earth,  to  the  worst  place  of  all ! 


What  are  we  going  to  hear  ?     My  heart  stands  still ! 

KOXANA.  \ 

Something  has  happened !     Is  it  good  or  ill  ? 


The  shapes  of  all  the  pleasures  he  has  known 
Keep  by  his  side,  although  no  more  his  own  ; 
Their  ghosts  seek  his,  and  beckoning,  mocking,  taunt 
Him  who  once  haunted  them,  whom  now  they  haunt. 


220  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Such  things  I  've  heard  for  true,  —  and  were  they  not, 
What,  then,  has  heaven  that  he  has  not  got? 
Had  he  but  all  to  gain,  as  you  and  I !  — 
No,  no !  be  sure  he  does  not  mean  to  die ! 

VOICES. 

Die? 

BOAZ,  enters. 

Will  he  die  ?     I  heard  that  he  was  ill 
Only  this  moment,  and  came  here  to  tell  you. 

VOICES. 
Who  ill?     The  master  ill?     And  like  to  die? 

PYRRHUS. 

He  like  to  die  ?     So  bright  and  well  this  morning ! 
How  did  it  happen  ? 

BOAZ. 

'T  was  a  sudcjen  seizure. 
The  doctor  says  there  's  hope,  and  only  hope. 

VOICES. 

What  will  become  of  us  ?     So  good  a  master ! 

ANOTHER  VOICE. 

But,  if  he  dies,  Miss  Helen  is  our  mistress. 
[PHILIP  enters,  and  joins  the  group  in  the  foreground. 

PYRRHUS. 

Our  mistress.     But  her  husband  is  our  master. 
Is  he  good,  think  you? 


EVENING.  221 

MELAS. 

Why,  he  must  be  good ; 
Or  else  she  had  n't  had  him. 

PYERHUS,  to  Philip. 

But  you  know  him. 
You  've  seen  him  at  his  place.     He  's  a  good  master  ? 

PHILIP. 

Ah,  —  a  good  master?     Yes.     But  not  like  ours. 
He  has  a  rather  short  way  with  his  people  : 
A  little  high  or  so. 

PYRRHUS. 

That 's  what  I  thought. 
I  Ve  seen  him  often  here  as  boy  and  man. 
He  always  had  a  brisk,  short  way  with  us. 
But  when  he  'd  got  Miss  Helen's  promise  safe, 
He  came  out  stronger. 

PHILIP. 

Well,  that 's  natural, 

Being  sure,  you  know.     But  after  all,  he  's  good. 
He  holds  no  close  grip  on  his  purse,  —  that 's  one  thing. 

MELAS. 

No,  he  's  free-handed.     I  've  had  proof  of  that. 

PYRRHUS. 

We  '11  not  be  stinted,  then  ? 


222  TEAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


CHLOE. 


No,  we  '11  have  plenty, — 

Meat,  clothes,  and  holidays.     The  master  willing, 
Miss  Helen  won't  say,  No. 


PYRRHUS. 

If  he  's  free-handed, 


That 's  all  I  ask. 


PETER. 

You  're  young  and  rash,  my  boy ! 
Not  the  free  spenders  are  the  best  for  us ; 
The  close  ones  may  be  safest  in  the  end. 
I  've  seen  the  world.     I  'm  not  much  over  sixty ; 
I  've  had  four  changes. 

PYRRHUS. 

Each  time  for  the  better. 

PETER. 

Well,  that 's  true,  too :  each  time  except  the  first. 
I  Ve  had  my  troubles.     But  I  hope  they  're  over. 
If  this  storm  blows  by,  as  I  think  it  will, 
I  hope  I  '11  end  my  days  in  peace.     The  master 
Is  young  yet,  —  much  too  young  to  die. 

MELAS. 

Miss  Helen 
Stays  with  him  all  the  time? 


EVENING.  223 

PHILIP. 

Miss  Helen  and  Hecate. 
The  mistress  falls  from  one  faint  to  another. 


The  mistress !     I  must  go  to  her  at  once  ! 
But  whose  will  we  be  who  were  hers  at  first  ? 
Shall  we  be  hers,  or  shall  we  be  Miss  Helen's  ? 


We  shall  be  hers.  Stick  you  by  those  you  're  born  with  ; 
Don't  look  to  strangers.  That 's  the  advice  I  give  you. 
When  changes  once  begin,  they  don't  end  soon. 

ROXANA. 

Miss  Helen's  husband  is  a  stranger,  then? 


To  you  he  is.     You  were  not  born  on  's  place. 
Keep  to  your  own.     Don't  court  the  new.     Stand  fast. 
Say  you  're  the  mistress's,  whatever  happens. 


That  will  be  my  card.     So,  let  come  what  will, 
I  shall  fall  easy.     Or  they  won't  object, 
Or,  if  they  do,  I  shall  have  shown  attachment 
To  my  old  mistress.     They  like  that  in  us. 
I  shall  not  fare  the  worse.     Do  you  as  I  do. 
But  now  I  must  be  wanted  at  the  house. 
They  cannot  do  without  me.     And  you,  Philip  ? 


224  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

PHILIP. 

I  Ve  been  upon  a  confidential  errand, 

And  just  came  back  this  way.     I  'm  going  now. 

BOAZ. 

And  I  must  go. 

ROXANA,  reluctantly. 

And  I,  to  my  poor  mistress. 

[.Booz,  Philip,  and  Roxana  go. 

MELAS. 

What  do  we  gossip  here,  and  our  poor  master 
Lies  in  the  struggle  between  death  and  life  ? 
If  death  prevail,  there  wait  the  evil  powers 
On  the  one  side,  the  good  ones  on  the  other, 
Ready  to  take  the  spirit  as  it  flits. 
Who  is  there  that  will  think  to  chase  the  bad, 
And  call  the  good  ones  down  in  greater  number, 
By  pious  word  or  song?     Who  is  there  near  him 
That  will  take  thought  of  this  ?     Then  we  must  do  it. 
Woe,  woe  to  him,  if  the  black  bands  prove  strongest! 
Shall  his  soul  pass  unhelped  by  hymn  or  prayer? 

VOICES. 

Oh,  no !  oh,  no !  and  he  so  good  a  master ! 
Strike  up  a  hymn  !     Strike  up  a  death-bed  hymn ! 

[Voices  in  various  quarters  give  the  pitch  for  different  tunes. 
In  different  parts  of  the  field  a  beginning  is  made  of  some 
favorite  hymn,  but  the  voice  dies  away  after  a  few  notes. 
A  dead  silence  follows,  suddenly  broken  by  a  clear,  sweet  voice. 


EVENING. 

VOICE. 
From  earthly  toil  and  sorrow 

The  weary  pass  away, 
To  find  their  last  to-morrow, 
Their  endless  resting-day. 

Then  let  there  be  no  grieving, 
Though  they  go  forth  alone ; 

Think  they  are  only  leaving 
A  strange  land  for  their  own. 

OTHER  VOICES,  reply. 
We  grieve  not  for  those  going, 

Their  home  and  ours  to  find ; 
For  us  our  tears  are  flowing, 

For  us  who  stay  behind. 

Not  those  who  're  havened  yonder, 
Where  rest  and  plenty  bless ; 

But  we  mourn  those  who  wander 
Still  in  the  wilderness. 

MELAS. 

What  hymn  is  this  ?     A  hymn  for  us  the  poor ! 

It  suits  not  the  condition  of  our  master. 

Is  he  a  wanderer  in  the  wilderness  ? 

Is  he  tired  out  with  living  ?     Will  he  find 

More  rest  and  ease  on  the  other  side  than  here? 


15 


226  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

PYRRHUS. 

Hardly.     Look  here  !     Have  none  of  you  some  hymns 
You  've  heard  at  church  ?  hymns  proper  for  our  masters  ? 

VOICE. 

A  death-bed  hymn  ?     I  can  remember  one. 


But  all  they  say  themselves  to  one  another 

May  not  be  fit  for  us  to  say  of  them. 

Most  of  the  death-bed  hymns  I  've  heard  at  church 

Were  full  of  heavy  threatenings. 

MELAS. 

Listen !  listen ! 

VOICE,  sings. 

"Where  is  the  tree?     To-day  it  stood 
The  fairest  glory  of  the  wood, 
So  high  its  top,  so  wide  its  root.  — 
The  Lord  came  by  and  looked  for  fruit! 

O  tree,  thy  haughty  head  is  sunk  ! 
No  longer  may  thy  hollow  trunk 
Stretch  its  false  branches  to  the  sky: 
Where  thou  hast  fallen  thou  must  lie ! 

The  early  and  the  latter  rain 

Shall  strike  thy  crisping  leaves  in  vain, 

Nor  sun  nor  wind  shall  do  thee  good: 


EVENING.  227 

It  is  too  late  to  grow  new  wood. 

Thou  hadst  thy  springtide  and  thy  prime  : 

They  passed,  and  there  is  no  more  time ! 

O  soul !  thou  heard'st  the  Master  call, 
And  thought's!  it  soon  to  give  up  all : 
There  were  yet  time  to  seek  His  ways 
After  a  length  of  prosperous  days. 

The  hopes  of  this  world's  children  pass 
Like  wayside  herb  or  housetop  grass, 
Wine  spilled  before  it  reach  the  cup, 
Corn  blasted  ere  it  be  grown  up. 

Now,  sinner,  must  thy  fleeting  day 
Count  with  things  waste  and  thrown  away. 
Its  course  is  run.     Beneath  the  sod 
There  is  no  time  to  work  for  God: 
No  time  for  work,  lost  soul !  and  yet 
Eternity  for  vain  regret ! 

AN   OLD   MAN. 

Oh,  may  he  but  find  mercy  !  —  For  the  rich 
Christ  has  more  threats  than  promises.     For  us, 
Only  for  us,  the  word  is  full  of  mercy  ! 

[Sobs  and  groans. 

A  VOICE,  bursts  forth, 

0  lovely  Christ !  sweet  Christ !  the  poor  man's  brother ! 
How  shall  we  show  our  gratitude  to  Thee  ? 


228  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

AXOTIIER  VOICE,  answers. 
The  Master  saith :  "  By  loving  one  another 

Shall  you  make  known  the  love  you  have  for  me." 

CHORUS  OF  VOICES. 

Then  let  us  love  and  let  us  help  our  neighbor, 
Since  this  is  all  the  pay  that  Christ  will  ask  ; 

And  we  will  think  it  is  for  Him  we  labor, 

When  our  tired  hands  make  out  a  brother's  task. 


You  talk  about  yourselves  and  your  religion, 
And  have  no  thought  of  your  poor  dying  master! 
Shall  his  soul  pass  unhelped  by  sacred  song  ? 

[WJiile  Melas  is  speaking,  EZEKIEL  enters.  lie  stands  a  little 
apart,  and  regards  the  people  with  a  grave  and  sympathizing 
expression. 

PYKRHUS. 

Can  our  songs  aid  him  ? 

[Ezekiel  comes  forward.  The  people  are  all  silenced  by  his  ap 
pearance.  They  draw  back  a  little,  and  stand  in  an  attitude 
of  respectful  attention. 

EZEKIEL. 

We  are  one  in  Christ, 

And  nearer  one  than  you  may  think,  on  earth. 
This  soul,  that  shivers  on  the  misty  confines 
Of  the  two  worlds,  has  had  its  part  of  care, 
Its  part  of  weariness,  its  part  of  pain ; 
And  if  it  lay  its  burden  loathly  down, 


EVENING.  229 

Hugging  that  care,  that  weariness,  that  pain, 
Has  it  not  greater  need  of  prayer  than  those 
Whom  the  deceitful  ties  of  worldly  wealth 
Retain  not,  making  heaven's  bliss  less  dear? 

[Pause. 

Ere  we  uplift  our  souls  to  the  All-Pure, 
Search  we  ourselves,  that  no  unholy  feeling 
Make  void  the  prayer  our  lips  address  to  Him. 
We  kneel  for  one  who  goes  to  judgment  hence. 
If  any  here,  of  those  who  call  him  master, 
Reproach  him  in  their  hearts  for  griefs  endured 
Or  joys  withheld,  let  them  forgive  him  now. 
Heavy  upon  the  spirit  of  the  dying 
Hangs  the  dependant's  accusation  !     Let  not 
Him  miss  through  you  his  part  of  Paradise. 
Father,  forgive  him,  as  we  have  forgiven ! 

THERESA,  who  has  entered  while  JEzekiel  is  speaking,  and  stands  apart, 
raises  her  tight  hand  to  heaven,  praying  inwardly. 

Judge,  as  he  measured,  mete  Thou  unto  him  ! 

OLD  MAN,  raising  his  hands  towards  heaven. 
Father,  forgive  us,  as  we  have  forgiven ! 


VOICES. 

Amen  !     Amen !     What  have  we  to  forgive  ? 

OTHER  VOICES. 

Amen  !     Amen  !     Who  could  reproach  him  now  ? 


230  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

EZEKIEL. 

Pray  with  me,  brothers  !  — 

Thou  that  art  the  Father 

Of  rich  and  poor,  of  bond  and  free,  look  down 
Upon  this  spot,  where  meet  Thy  humblest  children 
To  ask  Thy  mercy  for  a  dying  man  ! 
This  man  is  not  our  equal.     Before  Thee 
Alone  could  we  appear  to  plead  for  him. 
But  Thou,  All-Great,  dost  with  impartial  eyes 
Look  on  his  wealth  as  on  our  misery. 
O  Father,  if  the  load  of  worldly  cares 
Press  down  his  soul  that  would  spring  up  to  Thee, 
Aid  Thou  its  struggles,  lend  it  of  Thy  strength, 
And  let  Thy  heaven,  opening  before  it, 
Court  it  with  glimpses  of  transcendent  joy  ! 
If  the  affections  of  this  mortal  state 
Hold  with  soft  ties,  but  strong,  let  Thy  compassion 
Gently  unloose  from  earth  the  clinging  tendrils, 
To  bind  them  to  the  bowers  of  Paradise ! 
O  God  and  Judge !  if  unrepented  sin 
Lurk  in  the  dim  recesses  of  his  heart, 
Hidden  ally  of  the  malignant  demon, 
Let  Thy  kind  chastisement  awake  the  sleeping! 
Stir  Thou  his  conscience  to  its  lowest  depths, 
And  let  the  anguish  of  the  final  hour, 
Summing  the  tortures  of  a  long  repentance. 
Be  counted  unto  him  for  expiation ! 
So  may  his  spirit,  purified  by  pain, 
Ask  and  receive  its  part  in  Thy  atonement ! 


EVENING.  231 

VOICES. 

Amen !     Amen ! 

EZEKIEL. 

Lord,  let  Thy  blessing  rest 
Upon  these  sheep  soon  left  without  a  shepherd  ! 
Be  Thou  their  guard  and  guide !    Hast  Thou  not  said, 
"  When  all  forsake,  the  Lord  will  take  thee  up  "  ? 
Grant,  Father,  in  Thy  mercy,  that  they  may 
Still  look  upon  the  faces  of  their  own, 
Still  tend  the  land  that  saw  their  children  born ! 
But  if  Thou  have  decreed  it  otherwise, 
O  Father,  if  the  places  that  have  known  them 
Shall  know  them  now  no  more  forever,  grant  them 
To  keep  their  faith  companion  of  their  exile,  — 
To  feel,  O  present  Help  in  time  of  need, 
They  cannot  wander  where  Thou  wilt  not  follow  !  — 

Brothers,  farewell !  Watch  through  the  night  with  prayer ! 
Though  God  deny  his  life  to  your  petitions, 
Yet  shall  your  hearts  be  purified  and  chastened, 
And  fitter  to  accept  what  He  ordains. 

[Ezeldel  goes.     The  people  remain  with  their  heads  bowed  as  in 
silent  prayer.     The  scene  closes. 


TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


NIGHT. 


TKAGEDY    OF    EKEORS. 


NIGHT. 

SCENE.  —  A  large,  dimly  lighted  room.  On  the  right  a  bed,  of  which 
the  curtains  are  drawn  away  on  the  side  next  the  spectators.  STAN 
LEY  lies  on  it.  HECATE  stands  near  it.  Storm  without.  The  wind, 
at  intervals,  bursts  in  at  the  open  window  and  sweeps  through  the 
room,  then  dies  away  into  stillness. 


HECATE. 

The  hour  is  come!     These  signs  are  known  to  me. 

STANLEY,  in  a  faint  voice. 
Where  is  my  daughter? 

HECATE. 

She  was  summoned  hence. 
The  mistress 

STANLEY. 

Call  her  back ! 

\ 

HECATE. 

She  went  unwilling. 


236  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

She  will  not  long  delay. — 
[Aside. 

The  time  is  short ! 

STANLEY,  rousing  himself. 

Is  it  thou,  Hecate  ?     Do  thy  faithful  hands 
Still  tend  my  pillow  ?     Thou  shalt  be  rewarded. 
More  than  a  servant's  duty  thou  hast  rendered  : 
Thou  shalt  do  service  to  no  other  master. 
Thou  and  thy  child  are  by  my  will  made  free. 


Thy  will  ?     And  has  thy  will  the  power  of  Fate 

To  bind  and  loose  ?     Frail  man  !  know  that  our  child 

A  stronger  will  than  thine  has  freed  already. 

STANLEY. 

What  means  this  tone  ?     Thy  daughter  is  not  dead  ? 


No :  radiant  with  life,  with  hope,  with  beauty ! 
God  listened  to  my  prayer  and  granted  her 
My  share  of  happiness.     Thou  canst  not  now 
Withdraw  from  her  her  birthright  as  thy  daughter, 
Thy  eldest  born. 

STANLEY. 

Hecate,  I  know  thee  not 
In  this  strange  mood. 

HECATE. 

Say  rather,  now  thou  know'st  me. 


NIGHT.  237 

For  the  first  time  —  the  first  for  twenty  years  — 

We  meet  alone  together  face  to  face. 

Know'st  thou  who  stands  beside  thee  here?  Thy  slave, — 

The  plaything  of  a  former  time,  —  the  drudge, 

The  patient  nurse  of  this  ?     Another  office 

I  fill  beside  thy  deathbed :  Heaven's  justice 

Makes  itself  heard  through  me. 

STANLEY. 

Hecate,  what  say'st  thou? 
Is  it  my  troubled  brain  that  lends  thy  voice 
These  ominous  tones,  —  thy  face  this  ghastly  sternness  ? 
Do  sight  and  hearing  fail  me  ? 

HECATE. 

Dying  man ! 

They  say  that  in  the  fatal  hour  the  soul 
Takes  retrospect  of  her  past  road  ;  that  objects 
Long  dim  in  distance  start  forth  suddenly 
In  vividness  beyond  their  natural  hues : 
Forms  worn  and  bent  retake  the  bloom  of  youth ; 
Kind  smiles  look  forth  from  long-estranged  eyes  ; 
Faces  flit  by  that  the  green  earth-sod  covers  ; 
Tones  whose  last  echoes  died  long  years  ago 
Float  backward  on  the  ethery  waves  to  thrill 
The  torpid  ear  with  keener  consciousness. 
Is  it  thus? 

STANLEY. 

Yes.     Faces  come  back,  and  voices. 
But  stay  near  me  in  silence.     I  am  weak. 


238  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Perplex  me  not  with  talking.     I  can  listen, 
Reply,  no  longer. 

HECATE. 

Thou  wilt  listen !     Seest  thou 
Among  those  forms  a  slight  young  girl  ? 

STANLEY. 

Cease,  cease 

This  idling !     These  pale  flitting  figures 
Molest  me,  even  unsummoned  by  thy  words. 
I  would  compose  myself  for  death.     My  life 
Has  not  been  wholly  without  stain  of  earth, 
But  no  dishonor  marks  it.     I  have  filled 
My  place  as  man,  as  citizen,  as  neighbor. 
I  have  already  made  my  peace  with  God. 
I  am  at  peace  with  man.     I  have  wronged  no  one. 

HECATE. 

Among  those  flitting  figures  mark'st  thou  one 
Slight,  sorrow-touched,  with  soft,  entreating  eyes 
That  seem  to  seek  in  every  human  face 
Something  once  known,  but  long  pursued  in  vain? 
Just  sixteen  years  have  formed  her  what  she  is : 
Ten  years  of  summer,  six  of  polar  frost. 
The  glow  of  tropic  years  reveals  its  trace 
In  the  quick  mantling,  quick  receding  blood ; 
The  wintry  years  have  stamped  their  iron  reign 
On  her  calm  brow,  her  firm,  untrembling  lip. 
She  stands  amid  a  group  composed  of  all 
Earth  holds  most  abject ;  yet  she  feels  no  shame. 


NIGHT.  239 

Near  her  are  men  cold,  stern,  or  rude,  whose  nod 

Can  sign  her  fate ;  yet  neither  hope  nor  fear 

Stirs  in  her  heart.     Her  eyes  have  made  their  quest : 

What  they  sought  was  not,  and  their  clouded  gaze 

Sank  to  the  earth.     She  marks  not  when  the  crowd 

Dissolves  around  her  ;  heeds  not  that  the  tumult 

Gives  place  to  silence.     Suddenly  a  voice 

Close  by  her  side !     It  only  asked  her  name. 

But,  at  those  tones,  low,  tender,  musical, 

Her  sleeping  heart  awoke.     She  raised  her  eyes, 

And  met  those  answering  eyes.     Oh,  what  a  heaven 

Of  light  and  joy  was  opened  in  that  glance  ! 

The  sought  was  found :  that  look  of  human  love ! 

That  look  last  read  upon  a  mother's  face, 

But  blent  with  grief,  but  dimmed  by  helplessness, 

Shone  on  her  once  again ;  now  gay  with  smiles 

And  confident  in  power.     That  kindly  look 

Was  bent  on  her  by  him  whom  in  that  hour 

Fortune  had  made  her  master.     In  that  name 

No  terrors  more.     To  follow,  toil  for  him, — 

To  render  back  by  years  of  faithful  service 

The  debt  that  moment  of  delight  imposed,  — 

This  thought  filled  all  her  soul.     With  springing  step 

She  followed  him,  nor  asked  nor  heeded  whither  ; 

Trusting  in  him  as  in  her  mother,  —  in  God. 

STANLEY. 

Why  seek  to  call  forth  from  the  hazy  past 
These  idle  visions?     It  is  as  to  strive 
To  build  again  the  fairy  monuments 


240  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Formed  by  the  shifting  summer  clouds.     To  thee 
These  recollections  have,  perhaps,  a  value: 
To  me  what  are  they  but  the  irksome  record 
Of  vanities  forgotten  or  despised  ? 


Bethink  thee  where  thou  art !     Earth's  vain  distinctions 

Exist  for  thee  no  longer.     Thou  art  standing, 

A  feeble,  naked  soul,  upon  the  brink 

Of  the  unknown.     Thou  art  no  more  the  master 

Of  wide-spread  lands,  of  other  human  souls. 

We  are  here  now  as  equals,  as  two  beings 

Whose  fates  are  interlocked  eternally. 

Thou,  looking  backward  through  the  frigid  course 

Of  lagging  years  to  thy  exuberant  youth, 

View'st  its  desires  and  acts  as  fleeting  follies. 

Yet  not  the  less  in  those  rich  hours  of  spring 

AVere  the  first  ardors  of  thy  opening  heart 

Poured  forth  upon  the  friendless  orphaned  girl; 

Yet  not  the  less  was  an  eternal  bond 

Then  welded  between  thy  proud  soul  and  hers. 

Thou  canst  not  cancel,  even  by  thy  scorn, 

Not  even  by  thy  blank  forgetfulness, 

Those  marriage-ties  unowned  by  human  laws, 

But  set  down  in  irrevocable  record.  — 

Yes,  thou  must  hear !  —  From  our  united  lives, 

Howe'er  disjoined,  howe'er  repellent  now, 

Has  sprung  a  life  destined  to  be  the  source 

Of  a  long  line  that  through  all  future  time 

Shall  bear  the  traces  of  our  blended  natures  : 


NIGHT.  241 

And  from  that  world  where  shall  be  our  next  meeting, 
The  angels  of  the  master  and  the  slave 
Shall  watch  together  o'er  its  shifting  fortunes. 
Whate'er  the  path,  through  sunshine  or  in  shade, 
Those  beings  born  of  ours  are  called  to  tread, 
Our  parent  hearts  will  track  their  wandering  steps. 
Once  more  those  hearts  must  thrill  in  harmony. 
Each  throb  of  pain  that  heaves  those  tender  bosoms 
Through  which  our  blended  life-tide  flows  shall  send 
To  ours  a  sharper  pang.     To  the  glad  beat 
Of  happy  hearts  ours  shall  exulting  answer. 
Together  shall  we  stretch  our  viewless  hands 
To  hold  the  waverer  on  the  brink  of  crime 
Back  from  its  gulf;  we  shall  together  suffer 
The  double  anguish  of  remorse  that  sees 
In  the  new  guilt  the  old  revived.     But,  oh ! 
May  we  not  also  in  the  generous  thought, 
The  noble  deed,  reclaim  the  parents'  share  ? 
May  we  not,  glorying  in  our  children's  virtue, 
Find  our  own  lives  redeemed  ?     Oh,  may  we  not 
Turn  on  each  other  then  relenting  looks, 
And,  reconciled  at  last,  together  seek, 
Even  in  our  crippled,  uncompleted  lives, 
The  latent  germ  of  the  full-opened  flower  ? 

STANLEY. 

My  ear  is  weary !     Rave  no  more ! 

HECATE. 

I  rave, 
16 


242  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Because  I  dare  to  figure  for  the  offspring 
Of  thy  own  richest  years,  most  real  affections, 
A  fate  not  cursed,  attributes  not  ignoble  ? 
If,  deeming  thus,  I  rave,  thou  rav'st  with  me ! 
Blooms  not  that  fair  existence  sprung  from  ours 
With  all  thy  life  not  less  than  mine  had  brightest? 
All  that  there  was  of  happy  in  my  fate, 
All  that  there  was  of  generous  in  thy  heart, 
Passed  into  hers,  leaving  us  destitute, 
But  crowning  her  with  wealth  in  overplus. 
Is  she  not  dowered  with  such  munificent  gifts 
As  in  old  time  have  won  the  name  of  god-born 
For  those  whose  parentage  no  father  claimed? 
What  on  thy  dreary,  colorless  existence 
Gleamed,  the  sole  sunbeam  ?     On  thy  stagnant  life 
What  came  to  thee  as  the  fresh  breeze  of  heaven, 
Lifting  the  clogging  vapors  from  thy  path  ? 
When,  in  thy  dull  and  objectless  career, 
'Mid  vulgar  cares,  and  joys  more  vulgar  yet, 
When  didst  thou  know  one  hour  of  heartfelt  bliss 
That  was  not  by  thy  daughter's  hand  prepared? 
Knew'st  thou  in  all  these  years  one  pure  emotion, 
One  generous  thought,  that  was  not  waked  by  her  ? 
What  solace  has  thy  death-hour,  what  regret, 
That  does  not  speak  of  her  ?  what  earthward  hope 
That  does  not  wreathe  itself  round  Helen's  name  ? 

STANLEY. 

Helen !     Ah,  in  that  name  thou  hast  a  spell 
That  never  fails  thee  !     All  is  overlooked : 


NIGHT.  243 

Thy  frequent  strangeness,  thy  proud  looks,  bold  words, 
When  I  recall  what  thou  hast  been  to  her  ! 


What  have  I  been  to  her?     The  patient  nurse 

That  put  away  her  baby  from  her  bosom 

And  dutifully  took  the  mistress'  child? 

Have  I  not  often  told  thee  in  these  veins 

There  does  not  flow  one  drop  of  servile  blood? 

Thou  wouldst  think  otherwise.     Thou  wast  content 

To  count  upon  a  slave's  fidelity. 

Fidelity !  —  and  I  was  faithful  where 

I  owed  allegiance :  true  to  God  and  Nature. 

Outlawed  I  stood;  unbound  by  human  compacts; 

The  woman  lived  in  me,  the  mother,  sole  ! 

How,  then!  and  thou  couldst  think  that  radiant  being 

The  fruit  of  bonds  by  priests  and  lawyers  framed 

To  join  thy  lands  to  Emma  Fortescue's  ? 

And  thou  couldst  think  that  life  o'erflowed  with  sunshine, 

Exuberant  with  love,  with  joy,  with  hope, 

The  offspring  of  your  cold,  reluctant  union 

With  that  affectionless,  idealess  thing ! 

STANLEY. 

God !  whither  tends  this  ? 


Listen !     When  that  hour, 

That  happy  mothers  wait  with  dread  and  hope 
Alternating  and  mingling,  fell  on  me, 


244  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

I  lay  crushed  under  a  despair  so  heavy 

That  the  debasements  of  those  months  of  shame 

And  all  the  closing  tortures  were  as  nothing. 

The  poorest  wretch,  yet  owning  her  own  soul, 

That  on  her  squalid  couch  brings  forth  to-day 

A  new  existence,  however  fallen,  guilt-soiled, 

Knows  in  that  hour  foreboding  of  return  ; 

And  gentle  thoughts  of  pious  expiation 

Lull  her  regrets,  as  to  her  sheltering  bosom 

She  holds  the  new-born,  hers,  her  own  !     But  I ! 

The  shame,  the  tortures,  had  for  me  no  fruit 

But  deeper  shame,  but  keener  agonies  : 

I  knew  my  doom ;  the  sentence  had  gone  forth.  — 

In  the  proud  mansion  near,  another  child 

Waited  to  see  the  light.     Around  the  couch 

Where  its  pale  mother  was  to  meet  her  hour, 

Already  was  prepared  what  wealth  could  buy 

Or  love  invent,  to  mitigate  its  pangs. 

The  looked-for  babe,  the  heir  of  lands  and  gold, 

Had  yet  no  claim  on  Nature's  richest  treasures:, 

The  feeble  source  from  which  its  life  had  sprung 

Could  never  hope  to  nourish  its  expansion. 

A  richer  breast  must  yield  the  high-born  foundling 

The  food  its  mother's  poverty  denied. 

I  was  marked  out,  unwilling  benefactress, 

To  foster  the  strange  claimant  in  my  arms, 

To  yield  my  bosom  to  the  vampire  lips 

That  through  my  veins  should  suck  my  infant's  life. 

I  knew  it  all :  yet  a  few  weeks  and  then 


NIGHT.  245 

My  child  was  orphaned.     Sudden  from  despair 

I  rose  to  more  than  hope,  —  to  strength,  to  daring; 

I  felt  in  me  a  power  to  master  Fate. 

I  battled  fiercely,  and  my  strong  will  conquered. 

My  soul  had  inwardly  received  assurance 

Of  the  won  victory,  when  towards  my  door 

Came  hurrying  feet.     The  ancient  blear-eyed  crone 

That  sat  by  me  rose  quickly  from  her  place; 

But,  ere  she  reached  the  door,  a  young  girl  entered :  — 

"  Come  to  the  mistress  !  "  —  In  her  frighted  look 

I  read  it  all:  the  fated  hour  was  come. 

I  rose.     I  had  no  purpose  in  my  heart. 

I  only  knew  my  place  was  by  that  bed,  — 

That  thither  my  child's  future  called  me.     Blindly 

I  followed  the  mysterious  impulsion. 

Within  the  house  confusion  reigned ;  the  servants 

Ran  wildly  round,  not  knowing  what  they  did. 

The  master  was  from  home.     The  great  event 

Had  come  untimely,  and  the  pampered  lady 

Found  in  her  hour  of  need  no  other  aid 

But  the  old  purblind  crone's  that  tended  me  : 

But  hers  —  and  mine.     I  in  my  arms  received 

My  destined  charge.  —  Upon  the  selfsame  breast 

The  sisters  lay.     Upon  the  head  of  one 

Propitious  stars  shot  down  their  influence. 

The  other  —  was  before  her  birth  predestined 

To  misery  and  shame.     Thou  hast  divined. 

God  gave  the  occasion,  and  I  welcomed  it. 

The  inward  prophecy  had  found  fulfilment. 


246  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

When  the  new  mother,  rallying  from  her  faintness, 
Asked  for  her  child,  before  her  ravished  eyes 
I  held  my  rose-tinged,  fairly-rounded  babe, 
While  her  poor  bantling  sent  forth  feeble  wails 
Upon  the  wretched  pallet  of  the  slave. 


STANLEY. 


Thou  torturing  fiend !  Is  it  in  mockery 
Of  my  death-agonies  thou  comest  hither 
To  aid  their  sharpness  with  thy  lying  words  ? 


HECATE. 


Thy  heart,  thy  conscience  tell  thee  I  speak  truth. 

STANLEY., 

It  cannot  be !     Thou  couldst  not  dare  ! 


Not  dare? 

What  fear  should  check  me?     The  respectful  awe, 
Perchance,  that  bows  the  slave's  soul  to  his  master's, 
And  makes  him  tremble  even  at  his  own  thoughts, 
If  they  suggest  rebellion  ?     The  slave-brand 
I  wear  not  on  my  soul!     I  will  and  dare! 

STANLEY. 

No !  it  is  one  of  your  mad  brain's  delusions ! 

HECATE. 

Nor  falsehood  nor  yet  dream :  reality ! 


NIGHT.  247 

Thou  know'st  it  such  !     Thy  quivering  betrays  thee  ! 
The  daughter  thou  hadst  left  to  infamy 
Is  crowned  with  wealth  and  honor.     She  whose  fate 
Would  have  been  dearer  to  thee  than  thy  soul's 
Creeps  through  her  abject,  hopeless  life. 


Thou  demon  ! 
Why  hast  thou  kept  this  for  my  dying  hour  ? 

HECATE. 

That  thou  might'st  be  the  partner  of  my  secret 
On  the  other  side  the  grave ;  but  that  on  this 
Thou  shouldst  not  have  the  power  to  mar  my  work. 

[The  curtains  open  on  the  other  side  of  the  bed  from  that  near 
which  Hecate  stands.  HELEN  appears,  pale  and  agitated.  At 
the  gesture  of  surprise  and  horror  which  Hecate  makes  on 
seeing  her,  Stanley  turns  his  head. 

STANLEY. 

Helen,  thou  there  ? 

HELEN. 

My  father,  I  am  here. 

STANLEY. 

What  hast  thou  heard,  child? 

HELEN,  kneeling. 

Lay  thy  dying  hand 
In  blessing  on  thy  outcast  daughter's  head ! 


248  TRAGEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Forgive  me,  father,  my  unconscious  crime, 
As  I  forgive  thee  for  my  guilty  birth  ! 
Pardon  thou  all  the  years  of  toil  and  shame 
Thy  high-born  child  has  borne  for  Helen's  sake, 
In  prospect  of  the  years  of  toil  and  shame 
Thy  slave-born  daughter  shall  endure  for  hers  ! 
For  the  defrauded  Perdita  shall  find  — 
Justice  ?  — 

[Rising. 

Is  it,  then,  justice  that  appoints 
Fate  so  diverse  for  children  of  one  blood  ? 
No !  but,  alike  the  fruit  of  wrong  and  crime, 
We  will  divide  our  misery :  the  blight 
That  nipped  the  opening  shoots  of  her  young  life 
Shall  wither  mine  in  its  full  blossom.     Father ! 
Mother !     I  do  now  take  this  burden  on  me 
To  bear  with  patience  till  my  death  !     These  pains, 
Which  I  do  willingly  accept,  may  God 
Impute  to  you  in  ransom  of  your  crime  ! 


O  God!     Thus  Helen 

HELEN. 

No  !  not  thus,  my  father ! 

By  all  the  lavish  love  that  blessed  my  childhood, 
The  patient  guidance  lent  my  riper  years, 
Though  they  were  granted  to  a  name,  a  shadow, 
And  the  poor  changeling  knows  them  not  her  own, 
Yet,  for  the  bliss  that  in  those  hours  I  tasted, 


NIGHT.  249 

I  bless  thee  still  with  a  full  daughter's  heart ! 

And  thou,  my  father,  in  this  mortal  hour, 

Will  not  the  vain  distinctions  of  this  earth 

Release  thy  heart  ?     Am  I  not  still  thy  child  ? 

Curse  not  the  cheat  that  let  me  call  thee  father  ! 

Grudge  not  thy  daughter  the  dear  memories 

That  to  her  future  abject  life  shall  be 

As  the  tradition  of  a  paradise 

To  fallen  man,  keeping  alive  her  faith 

In  an  eternal  principle  of  good  ! 

Once  more,  I  pray  thee,  father,  bless  thy  child! 


How  shall  I  bless  thee,  Helen  ?     With  weak  words  ? 
I  that  have  cursed  thee  even  in  giving  thee  life, 

And  leave  thee  now  O  God,  it  shall  not  be! 

There  is  yet  time  !     My  brain  is  master  still  ! 
I  will  keep  death  at  bay !  —  Go,  call  my  brother ! 

[  To  Hecate,  who  stands  as  if  benumbed,  her  eyes  fixed  on  Helen 
with  a  rigid  stare. 

Hecate  !  hag  !  witch  !  fiend !  demon  !     Hecate  !  go  ! 
'T  is  for  your  child !     Go  !  bring  my  brother  hither  !  — 

{To  Helen,  tenderly. 

Thy  hand  in  mine  !     Oh  for  one  hour  of  life ! 
In  vain  !    Death  gripes  me !     God,  thou  gav'st  me  years 
Enough  to  sin  in,  but  to  make  amends 
Deniest  a  moment !     Helen  !  child  !  receive 
The  fruitless  blessing  of  thy  guilty  father ! 

[Dies. 

[The  curtain  falls. 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


[X^*  Any  Books  in  this  list  will  be  sent  free  of  postage,  on  receipt 
of  price. 

BOSTON,  135  WASHINGTON  STREET, 
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A   LIST   OF   BOOKS 

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10       A  Lift  of  Books  Publifhed 


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[PROSE.] 
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by   TlCKNOR    AND    FlELDS.  11 


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12       A  Lift  of  Books  Publifhed 


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by    TlCKNOR    AND    FlELDS.  13 


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14       A  Lia  of  Books  Publifhed 


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by    TlCKNOR    AND    FlELDS.  15 


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16       A  Lia  of  Books  Publiflied. 


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76  cents. 

THE  SEVEN  LITTLE  SISTERS,  who  live  in  the  Round  Ball 
that  floats  in  the  Air.  Illustrated.  63  cents. 


RECCIRC  MAR  1  IB  1985 


lOm-4,'23 


YB728I9 


GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


100 


.  ,  . 


